


in nobody's eyes but mine (hey shut up)

by jatersade



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Bullying, Class Differences, Coming Out, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Merlin has no clue what's going on but Arthur's friends are going to make sure he finds out, Misunderstandings, Multi, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Merlin (Merlin), Pining, Slow Burn, uhhhhh that tag is questionable but basically yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2020-12-16 14:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21037379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jatersade/pseuds/jatersade
Summary: “I think,” Merlin says carefully, “that Arthur Pendragon might be plotting to kill me.”“Oh, yeah,” Will agrees. “Pendragon’s definitely fixing to have you done in.”Freya nods slowly, pursing her lips. “Not much you can do about that, I’m afraid,” she says, patting his arm gently, “but we’ll pick you out a pretty coffin.”Or: Arthur didn’t speak to Merlin muchbeforeMerlin lost his temper at him in Uncle Gaius’s apothecary, but the incident has apparently only strengthened Arthur’s resolve to avoid Merlin for the rest of time. On a completely unrelated note, Merlin is also now being gently stalked by Arthur’s friends and sister.A High School AU.





	1. on the streets (such a sweet face)

**Author's Note:**

> from my research, English school years are separated into three terms: Autumn, Spring and Summer (and summer term is different from summer holiday, which I, an American, did not know). Each term is 13 weeks, with a half term break occurring at the six-week mark. Spring term runs from early January to Easter, with half term break in mid-February. This story starts and mostly takes place during the second part of Spring Term, with one scene (the last scene) taking place at the beginning of summer term, directly after the term break. Apparently Rugby is also played traditionally in the winter, so I THINK the timing of all of this makes sense. There are probably some details in here inaccurate to the British schooling system - if that's the case, feel free to attribute them to Albion Academy being weird because it's so fancy.  
Arthur, Merlin, Gwaine, Elyan, Freya, Will, and Valiant are in their penultimate year of schooling. Leon and Percival are the year above them, and Lance, Gwen, and Morgana are the year below. Thanks for bearing with me!
> 
> Work title (and all chapter titles) from Andy, You're a Star by The Killers

He’s been trying to figure out how to broach the subject all week, but it still takes nearly an hour of the three of them procrastinating together in his room before Merlin works up the nerve. “I think,” he says carefully to Will and Freya, preparing to gauge their reactions, “that Arthur Pendragon might be plotting to kill me.”

“Oh,” says Freya looking up from her book and frowning mildly, “Why would you think that? Has he threatened you?”

“Nah,” Will says from the floor, not even looking over at them, “if Pendragon was up to something like that, he wouldn’t get his hands dirty – he’d hire someone with his daddy’s money and steer clear of you completely; might even be extra nice to you to make sure he didn’t, y’know, implicate himself, or whatever.” 

This does not make Merlin feel better. 

“Well,” he says cautiously, “he has started being – well, steering clear, I guess? He hasn’t actually come into the store since term break.”

“After you tore him a new one!” Will crows enthusiastically. “Good on you for that, by the way – a prat like him deserves to be taken down a notch or two every once in a while.” 

“Right,” Merlin says, and tries to push away his discomfort. Will is right: Arthur _had_ deserved it. Merlin ignores the sickly feeling that’s been churning in his stomach since the last time he saw Arthur, and forces himself to keep talking. “The weird thing, though – well, the weirder thing – is that you know how getting to fourth period can be – er, slightly taxing for me? Because I don’t have class near either of you after lunch?”

Will sits up sharply, narrowing his eyes. “Have Valiant and his merry band of pricks been fucking with you, again?” he asks dangerously. “Has _Pendragon_?”

“No! I mean, Arthur never did – he barely even knew who I was, you know that – and Valiant hasn’t bothered since…well, you know.” He raises his hand almost unconsciously, lightly brushing his fingers over the jut of his cheekbone where there had been a bruise only days before, finally faded after nearly two weeks. “He might have tried, except –”

“Tried?” asks Freya, which is her very polite way of saying that she, like everyone else, is aware that Merlin couldn’t fight off a bug, let alone several improbably large teenagers.

“Well, see, Gwaine –”

“From the rugby team?” asks Will.

“Yeah, him – he’s started, um, walking with me? From lunch to my class?”

Freya and Will are both staring at him now.

“Elaborate,” Freya says. 

“That’s it, really,” he says awkwardly. “I mean, I didn’t ask him, he just started doing it. He meets me at the beginning of the corridor and walks me past the lockers all the way to my class, then goes to his. When he did it the first time, on Monday, I thought it would be a one-time thing, but then he _kept_ doing it, and he only started after…well, after I yelled at Arthur in the shop over break.”

Freya cocks her head to the side contemplatively. “You’d think that if you heard someone shouted your friend out of a building, you’d be less inclined to do nice things for them and more inclined to get…”

“Punchy,” Will offers. 

“Yes,” Freya agrees, nodding once at Will in acknowledgment, “exactly that. _Punchy_.”

“Well, yeah,” Merlin says, and shrugs a little helplessly. “That’s what I thought, too.”

“Does he ever… say anything?” asks Freya.

Merlin decides not to tell them about all of the strange Arthur Pendragon-related trivia that Gwaine has foisted upon him over the course of the approximate twenty-two minutes they’ve spent in each other’s company. “I mean, he’s talkative. Tells me about his dogs, sometimes. Asked me what I like to do after school, once.”

Freya’s eyebrows pinch together delicately. “And what did you say?” 

“That I spend a lot of time working in my Uncle’s shop, which I like? And that I spend time with the two of you. But then he asked me if I like rugby, and I didn’t want to offend him, so I said that it was alright, as far as sports go? And then I think I spent the next forty-five seconds babbling about how I’m too uncoordinated to play many sports, though I may also have blacked out from fear, so I’m not entirely sure.”

Freya and Will look at each other, and then back towards Merlin. 

“Yeah,” Will says, lying back down on the floor, “Alright. Pendragon’s definitely fixing to have you killed.”

“Great,” says Merlin, only a little hysterically, “so what do I do about it?”

Freya nods slowly, pursing her lips. “Not much you _can_ do, I’m afraid,” she says, and pats his arm gently. “But we’ll pick you out a pretty coffin.”

She goes back to her book and Will goes back to staring at the ceiling, both of them absolutely peaceful, as if they hadn’t just all but confirmed that Merlin’s days are numbered. 

Merlin glares at them both. “You are _terrible_ friends,” he says, and then goes back to his homework, as well; unless Arthur plans to have him killed before Friday, this history paper still needs to get done, somehow. 

*

It starts, if anything, because of a rather unlucky class schedule. 

Maybe it had actually started before that, when Merlin had lost his temper at Arthur in Uncle Gaius’s shop over term break. Perhaps it had begun even further back, the first time Arthur had come into the shop at all, or years before all of that, when Merlin had first applied and been accepted on full scholarship to Albion Academy. Merlin could keep going, really, as far back as the founding of England itself (which Arthur’s ancestors were undoubtedly somehow a part of, him being a Pendragon, and all), but he only really begins to recognize that anything has started at all when Gwaine approaches him, and he had only done that because of Merlin’s rather shite luck. For Merlin’s purposes, therefore, his schedule is where it starts. 

To be fair, Merlin’s schedule isn’t completely awful: he’s fortunate enough to share most of his classes with either Will or Freya or both of them, meaning that he not only has a constant study companion, but also that, for the most part, they’re able to move in packs, staving off any unsavory characters that happen to come their way. Well, Merlin’s way. 

The three of them had found each other as first years, all of them alone and far from home for the first time. More importantly, they had been three of the ten scholarship students accepted at Albion that year, which made them targets – Merlin most of all. He’s not like Freya, beautiful and kind enough that she’d likely be one of the most popular girls in school, if she wasn’t so poor and their school wasn’t populated by such elitist dickheads. He’s not like Will either, handsome and reasonably intelligent and so talented at football that he’d been scouted for a sports scholarship nearly the minute he’d first stepped onto a field. Instead, he’s Merlin: poor like they are, but also awkward, uncoordinated, and probably too mouthy for his own good. Everything, in short, that the upper crust families that have populated Albion Academy for generations can’t stand.

The only class Merlin doesn’t share with either Will or Freya is fourth period English – in fact, it’s halfway across campus from both of their classes, meaning that every day after lunch, he walks alone from the cafeteria to his classroom. This, itself, might not be so bad, if not for the fact that actually getting to class means that he inevitably crosses paths with Valiant and the rest of the inbred gorillas that Valiant calls friends, the lot of which have taken to loitering in front of the lockers which run down the hallway that Merlin’s classroom is located at the very end of. They’re not the only ones who give younger students and scholarship students (and Merlin in particular) a hard time, of course, but they’re the worst of the lot. Even Arthur Pendragon, who everyone knows is about as big a prat as they come, has never bullied Merlin the way Valiant has – of course, to bully Merlin would be to speak to Merlin, which Arthur has never actually deigned to do within the walls of the school (though Merlin doesn’t actually know if that makes him less of an arse or more of one).

What all of this together means, anyways, is that Merlin often has only two options after lunch, which are:  
a. Subject himself to the torment of wankers the likes of Valiant and Arthur Pendragon and their bands of loyal followers, or  
b. Avoid all of that by being late for class. 

Merlin’s strategy for getting to class after lunch has been, since term began last month, to tread carefully. It’s not a phenomenal strategy, he’ll admit, but it’s better than nothing. 

It’s the first Monday back from half-term break, which means it’s been ten days Valiant had accosted Merlin in the hall, leaving Merlin with a large bruise spanning the length of his left cheekbone and Valiant with two after school detentions (assuming he hadn’t somehow managed to get out of even that), and eight days since what Gaius has been calling Merlin’s _“unfortunate spat with that Pendragon boy, a very valued customer.”_

Merlin is making his way to class from the cafeteria when he hears someone call his name. He stiffens immediately, berating himself for not paying more attention to his surroundings (though he hadn’t thought he had much to worry about, yet, as he hasn’t even reached the corridor where Valiant and his lot hang around). Regardless, he immediately puts his head down, tightens his grip on the straps of his backpack, and starts walking faster. 

_“Hey,”_ the voice calls again, “Hey, Merlin!” There are footsteps hitting the ground behind him, loud enough that Merlin can hear it even over the rush of the crowded hallway, and knowing that he likely won’t escape his fate today, he turns around to meet it. 

Merlin had expected a bit of peace, actually. He’d thought perhaps Valiant would steer clear of him for at least a few days, deterred by the admittedly mild disciplinary action levied against him as a result of their last confrontation. It had been quite public, right there in the halls on the last day before half term break. About half of the school had watched Valiant corner Merlin by his locker, and seen the consequences of Merlin’s attempt to walk away from a conversation that Valiant was apparently very keen on having. Not that Valiant had been making any sense of course; there hadn’t been much of the interaction that Merlin had understood, up until Valiant had actually pulled his arm back and punched Merlin hard, directly across the face, knocking him to the floor. Merlin had understood _that_ quite well. Valiant had only been sentenced to serve a few after school detentions, despite the numerous witnesses and the fact that proof of the severity of the encounter had been painted across Merlin’s cheekbone. 

To Merlin’s surprise, though, it’s not Valiant or one of his roided out henchmen looking for retribution, or even Arthur Pendragon, come to make him pay for his outburst on Sunday. Instead, standing in front of Merlin and looking far too pleased with himself is a boy who looks much too handsome to be in high school, and who Merlin vaguely recalls as someone he’d seen hanging around Arthur with fair regularity, on those rare occasions he’d dared to look. 

He doesn’t say anything, too stunned to respond, but he doesn’t have to. 

“Hey,” the boy says as if addressing an old friend, “I thought that was you!” His eyes move across Merlin’s face, settling, for a moment, on his left cheek. “That’s looking much better – it faded really fast, actually, considering how big it was already getting when we dragged you to the nurse on Friday – did you put something special on it?”

“Er…” Merlin hesitates, still feeling as though he might be in a minor state of shock, “Sorry, but I don’t… you were the one that took me to the nurse’s office?”

“What?” the boy asks, momentarily sidetracked, “Yeah, my friend Lance and I did – he’s on the rugby team, as well.” The boy grins at Merlin. His teeth are perfect. “Sorry, where are my manners?” he asks, and holds out his hand to shake. “I’m Gwaine.” There is something about him that makes Merlin think, despite his words, that he’s never cared a lick for any kind of manners in his life. 

“Merlin,” Merlin replies tentatively, reaching out to shake his hand back. They’re still standing in the middle of the corridor, the only still bodies in a sea of constant movement, and Merlin, though still bewildered, is almost grateful for Gwaine’s presence. If Gwaine wasn’t standing here, Merlin thinks he may already have been swept away – the crowd moves around Gwaine like the Red Sea, many of them looking, some of them obviously fawning, but none of them actually touching him, and not a single one sparing a glance at Merlin. 

“Yeah,” says Gwaine, still grinning widely. He releases Merlin’s hand, immediately throwing an arm over his shoulder and steering them both down the hallway towards Merlin’s classroom, “I got that, actually. You’ve got statistics next, right? Room 315?”

“Ye-es,” agrees Merlin slowly, wondering how Gwaine could possibly know that when yesterday Merlin would have bet money that he didn’t even know Merlin’s name.

“Great,” says Gwaine, still with an arm around Merlin’s shoulder and still guiding them through the crowd, “I’m in 313, we can walk together.”

“Ah. Of course.” Merlin has a feeling that asking _why_ would be useless (though he has an idea), so he asks instead, with only the smallest bit of hesitation, “How…are you?” He inwardly winces at both his own awkwardness and the presumption of familiarity the question implies, and waits for Gwaine to do the same.

Gwaine does not do the same. Gwaine snorts once, and then begins to let out quiet snickers that soon turn into a fit of helpless giggles. Merlin can feel the shake of his body, they’re walking so closely together, and only stops being able to feel it when Gwaine removes his arm from Merlin’s shoulders to wipe away the wetness that’s gathered in his eyes. “Oh,” Gwaine gasps, heaving, “that’s – I’m great, honestly, I’m having a wonderful time. Walking to class with my good buddy Merlin, I knew it would be a blast. How are _you_?”

“Well,” Merlin says honestly, “I’m having a bit of a strange day.”

Gwaine raises his eyebrows innocently. “Oh?”

“Mm-hm,” Merlin hums, nodding thoughtfully. “See, I had a bit of an incident the day before break started.”

“Yeah,” Gwaine says, nodding. “I took you to the nurse. Nasty business.”

“Er – right,” Merlin says, recalling the discovery. “Thanks for that, by the way. No one told me who it was, or I’d have tried to thank you sooner.”

“Not a problem. Me and the boys are always glad to help.” Gwaine grins cheekily, and Merlin can’t help the amused snort that escapes him.

“Well,” he continues, “then, over break, I had a bit of a tiff with a customer in my Uncle’s shop –” 

“Did you?” Gwaine asks inquisitively, suddenly alert. “You don’t really seem like the type. What was it about?”

Gwaine is positively leaking curiosity, and Merlin knows that his hunch was correct – this is the reason Gwaine had approached him in the first place. Gwaine knows about his fight with Arthur (if it can even be called a fight), but probably doesn’t know exactly what happened. Or maybe he does, but he wants Merlin’s side of the story. Or perhaps he’s just trying to lull Merlin into a false sense of security, so he can exact revenge on Arthur‘s behalf. Whatever it is, Merlin isn’t going to be helping Gwaine with any of it.

“Nothing, really,” Merlin answer dismissively, “just a regular old spat. Apparently I’m much more prone to getting in fights than anyone thought. Including myself,” he adds, and feels proud of the way Gwaine huffs out a laugh. “It was all just a bit more dramatic than I’m used too, so I was in a bit of a funk during break. I was really hoping it wouldn’t set the mood for the second half of term –”

“And has it?”

“Well, we’re not even through the first day yet, so it might be a bit soon to tell. I’ve been a bit more on edge today, especially, because of the thing with Valiant–” Gwaine pulls a face at just the mention of the name, which immediately endears him just a bit more to Merlin “–so you can imagine my surprise,” he continues, “when, as I was walking down the hallway to my class, I heard someone I’d never met before running towards me and calling my name.”

“I can imagine,” Gwaine says, nodding sagely but not looking at all sorry.

“It’s just a bit odd,” Merlin continues, “having someone you’re fairly certain has no idea who you are approach you like you’ve been friends for ages. I don’t quite know how to feel about it.”

“That would be odd, wouldn’t it?” Gwaine asks, almost pensively. “To have some weird bloke who knows nothing about you come over and start a conversation with you at random for no apparent reason. Glad it’s just the two of us then, and nothing like that.”

“Yeah. Glad. Isn’t this your class?” They’re right in front of room 313, and although Merlin stops, Gwaine keeps walking, putting a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and nudging him forward. 

“_My_ class, yes,” he says, “but what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t walk you all the way to yours?”

“It’s four meters away,” Merlin says, a bit incredulously. 

“And it’s no skin off my back to walk you that four meters. Look, we’re already here!” And they are. They’re standing right outside of Merlin’s classroom, nearly but not-quite blocking the door.

Gwaine pats Merlin’s shoulder once, and then releases him. “Alright Merlin,” he says, “have fun in class.” He turns to walk away, calling "See you tomorrow!" back over his shoulder cheerfully as he does so, as if it’s a given; as if it’s the usual; as if the last five minutes have been anything other than possibly the strangest five minutes of Merlin’s life.

Even after he’s gone, disappeared into his own classroom, Merlin stands still in the doorway. “Right,” he says, mostly to himself, as Gwaine is already too far away to hear him. “Okay, then.” 

At the very least, Merlin thinks, things can’t possibly get any weirder. 

*

Things do get weirder. 

The next day before first period, he stops at the library to return a book he’d been using to write his English paper, and is, upon stepping through the large and ornate wooden doors that mark the front entrance of the library, essentially accosted by Morgana Pendragon. She spends mornings working in the library, he knows, for first period elective credit, and she’s not entirely a stranger to him; spending a fair bit of time around Morgana is a prerequisite to spending as much time in the library as Merlin does. Although he knows who she is and, to an extent, what she likes to read, he only knows as much about her as any person might reasonably be expected to know about a minor celebrity – which, within the walls of Albion Academy, Morgana (like her brother), absolutely is. 

She, like most people at Albion, has rarely paid Merlin any attention at all, except to send him looks that alternate between approval and disdain, depending on which book he happens to be checking out at the time. Apparently, she’s trying something new today, because almost as soon as he arrives, she’s there at his side. 

“So,” Morgana says. “I heard you met Gwaine.”

Perhaps there’s a sign on his back, he thinks, though he doesn’t know what anyone could possibly write that would be convincing enough to make so many people who are so much more popular than him seek out his company.

“Er – yeah,” Merlin says, taking a surprised step backwards. “I did, yeah. Yesterday.”

“And how was it?”

“Fine?” Merlin asks more than says, still reeling. “He’s, erm… nice?”

“Really?” She smiles with far too many teeth. Merlin doesn’t quite understand how or why, but a smile from Morgana means something far different than a smile from anyone else. “You found it _nice_ that he somehow knew the contents of your class schedule well enough to track you down and walk you to class? That’s not exactly the word I’d use for it, but to each their own, I suppose.”

Merlin feels a bit of sweat bead up on the back of his neck, and it has nothing to do with the temperature. 

“It – uh, it wasn’t my whole schedule? Just the one class, really –”

“No,” Morgana says simply. “He had your whole schedule.” 

“Right,” Merlin says, feeling very much the way he imagines a small animal feels when it knows it’s about to be eaten. “Well, uh, due diligence, and all that. Research is very important. Can I turn this in now, please?” he asks, holding his book up in front of him like a shield. 

Morgana cocks her head to the side, studying him as if she’s considering saying no. After what was likely only a few seconds but feels more like it was several minutes, she holds her hand out. “Of course,” she says, taking the book from him. 

“_Oedipus_?” She asks as she scans the book. “I thought your class was on _Antigone_, now.”

He resolutely does not ask her how she knows that, and does his very best not to think of it. “Well,” he says, handing over his student I.D. so that she can scan that, too, “we are. But for the term paper, I was thinking of using _Oedipus_ to establish criteria for the comparison of character flaws in tragic heroes. I want to make the argument that Creon was a tragic hero because of… um.” He looks up to see Morgana staring at him, and immediately loses his nerve, his train of thought, and nearly his breakfast. “Hamartia.” he finishes lamely. 

She raises an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. “Seems like that would be a bit of a prerequisite, yes. What did you think of it, then? _Oedipus_, I mean.”

“Uncomfortable,” Merlin admits, “But I knew it would be. It was a bit frustrating, too – all of that mess could have been resolved if the characters hadn’t been such… well, _imbeciles_ about everything.”

“Most problems could be solved that way,” Morgana says, something like amusement sparkling in her eyes.

Merlin can’t help but let out a short laugh. “Yeah,” he says, aware of the way his own mouth has curled up at the corners, “I suppose that’s fair. It’s not exactly what I’m looking for, anyways. I’m pretty sure I can find something better, at least for my purposes. I was thinking of trying _Hamlet_, next, actually. Or _The Great Gatsby_.”

Now both of her eyebrows are raised. If Merlin didn’t know any better, he’d say she looks almost interested. “_The Great Gatsby_ is quite the deviation, setting-wise,” she says.

“Yeah – I mean, Hamlet would probably be the most straightforward, but I think that with Gatsby if I can argue that despite the differences in setting, their arcs are narratively similar, it’ll lend more credence to the argument, you know? Also,” he adds, nearly playful, “I won’t have to write half a paper on all of the ways Oedipus was fucked, which is a huge plus – I’d hate to put myself through that again.”

Morgana snorts, at that. It’s unrefined and completely unladylike, and it’s the most genuine thing he’s ever seen her do. “Fair enough,” she says, handing back his ID. “Good luck on your paper.”

“Thanks,” Merlin says sincerely, and heads for the door. Something prickles at the back of his mind as he pushes it open, and he stops, looking back towards her. “Er – Morgana,” he asks, once again uncomfortable, “how did you know that Gwaine has my whole schedule?”

Morgana looks up from where she’s begun placing books back on the shelves and smiles even more sharply than before. “Please, Merlin,” she says, “who do you think got it for him?” 

She turns away from him and goes back to stacking books, obviously not expecting an answer.

On his way back to class, Merlin stops by a bathroom and checks the mirror, feeling a bit stupid, to make sure there’s not actually a sign on his back. There isn’t one. Merlin’s not surprised, exactly, but he’s also not any less confused. 

*

Three days after the first of Merlin's puzzling encounters, Gwaine has stayed true to his word. He's walked Merlin to class from lunch every day since the first, occasionally accompanied by other members of the rugby team. On Wednesday, for instance, Merlin had walked to class with Gwaine chattering away in his ear and Percival and Leon each taking up a spot on either side of them: two massive walls of stoic teenage boy. 

It’s Thursday, and Merlin is walking home from school when he hears someone call his name from behind him. The voice is feminine and not at all aggressive, which immediately puts Merlin at ease, but also marks the third time in a week that someone other than Will or Freya has approached him of their own volition – a new record, Merlin thinks. 

He turns around as he hears the sound of footsteps approaching, and is met by the sight of yet another one of Arthur Pendragon’s friends. Her name is Gwen, he knows, in the vague way that he knows the names of quite a few people at school that are really completely strangers to him. This is apparently quite different from the way that all of Arthur Pendragon’s friends seem to know _Merlin’s_ name: like they know all about him, somehow, even when they’ve never spoken to him before (the inverse of Arthur, who had always acted, at school, like they didn’t know each other at all (_we didn’t_, Merlin reminds himself, _not really_), despite the two of them having spent so much time together in the apothecary – the only place, it seemed, that Arthur was ever willing to acknowledge him).

“Merlin!” Gwen exclaims as she catches up to him. “I’m so glad I caught you! I didn’t know you lived this way – are you walking home?” 

“Ah – yeah, actually, I am,” he informs her truthfully. He’s not sure he’s exactly comfortable with someone who’s friends with Arthur Pendragon (who may or may not be planning Merlin’s murder) knowing where he lives, but he’s not exactly in the state of mind to lie about something so simple, and Gwen, despite the company she keeps, really always has seemed like a nice girl.

“Oh, I’m going this way too – we can walk together!” She sounds genuinely excited at the prospect. Though Merlin would rather not, they _are_ going in the same direction, and he can’t find a way to turn he down without sounding like an arse. 

So he nods, and says nothing, and they carry on in silence for a few moments before Gwen says, “You’re in my English class right? I mean, I know we’ve never actually spoken before, but I always like it when Professor Whiting reads excerpts from your papers. I was actually talking to Morgana a bit the other day, and she mentioned you were thinking of doing something really interesting for your term project.”

“Oh,” says Merlin, blinking rapidly – this, he understands. Professor Whiting had told them they were allowed to complete their final projects either by themselves or with the help of a partner. He’d never really thought Gwen was the type to take advantage, but it’s obvious that she’s looking for help on the project, or perhaps she thinks that if she’s nice enough, he’ll agree to help her with it, or maybe even just let her put her name on his project without making her do any of the work. 

Or maybe it doesn’t matter if he agrees to it. Gwen is nice enough, but there’s always the possibility that if he says no she’ll just employ the full force of the rugby team to convince him. He can’t say no in that case, really – he is, unfortunately, pathetic enough that he’s perfectly willing to do some extra work if it means being left alone by the likes of the them.

She’s waiting for him to say something, he realizes, snapping himself out of his own rather fatalistic tangent. What had she said last? That Morgana had mentioned his project? 

“I was thinking about doing it on Creon’s role as a tragic hero in _Antigone_,” he tells her. “I want to use the characteristics of at least one other famous tragic hero as the basis for my analysis, but I’m still trying to figure out which one.”

To Merlin’s surprise, Gwen doesn’t take the chance to invite herself onto his project. Instead she smiles and says, “Morgana was right; that would be really interesting to read. Would you be using Aristotle’s four traits then?” 

“Sort of, actually,” Merlin answers, feeling more at ease now that the conversation has officially settled on a topic he actually knows how to maneuver his way through. “I know it would get me an alright grade, at least, and it’d be easy, but I’d like to go a bit deeper than that. I wanted to structure my paper by, er – sort of by analyzing the other character first, I guess? And I’d be using Aristotle’s traits to do that, and then using the character arc of whoever I chose to identify the aspects of Creon and _his_ arc that make him a tragic hero. I know I said I haven’t settled on a work, yet,” he adds, “but I think I’m leaning towards _Hamlet_.”

Gwen gasps, looking genuinely delighted. “I was thinking the same thing! I mean,” she backtracks, waving her hands around a bit, and almost dropping her cellphone in the process, “not _exactly_, of course, your idea is really original, but I was planning on using the traits of a tragic hero specifically through the lens of the character imbalance that’s so prevalent in _Hamlet_, and then identifying how an imbalance between body, heart, and mind can result in the character’s fatal flaw–”

“Oh,” says Merlin, genuinely surprised, and Gwen cuts herself off, looking at him curiously. “Sorry!” Merlin immediately exclaims, “I mean – I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but that’s a really phenomenal idea.”

Gwen grins beatifically, and from there, the conversation flows easily. 

In the end it’s Merlin who makes the suggestion. “It might be really great – I mean, obviously we’ll both do fine if not, and you might not have the time, or just not want to, which is also fine–” he flounders, and has to pause to gather his thoughts. Gwen waits patiently while he does, and he feels a surge of incredible fondness, despite having known her for less than half an hour. 

“I was just thinking,” he finally continues, “That if we combined the ideas, made it into one big project–” he doesn’t even have to say anything else before Gwen is smiling, bright as the sun.

“I’d _love_ to! We’d get an A for sure, and Professor Whiting did say that he’d submit the best paper to the classics newsletter he sometimes edits for – I bet we’d stand a good chance!” 

Merlin smiles, relieved and excited and, once again, almost inexplicably fond. 

They continue on their way. Gwen breaks off from the main road before he does, but she gets his number before she leaves, texting him her name and a smiley face emoji so that he has her number, too. As Merlin makes his own way home (alone, as usual, but for the very first time feeling something like lonely), he has a thought he hasn’t had since the day he met Will and Freya: it’s possible – not certain, but possible – that Merlin has just made a friend.


	2. (on the match with the boys) you think you’re alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin has more friends than he ever thought he would, and it seems like literally every one of them is up to something.

Merlin can’t help but wonder, in the moments he spends thinking about how odd his life has recently become, if perhaps he’ll arrive at school one day only to find that all of the baffling interactions he’s been having as of late have really just been the product of an unfortunate fever dream. It’s not an entirely distressing thought, honestly, so he’s not worried so much as he is perpetually confused. If at any point he had been worried, though, it would have been for nothing.

He makes accidental eye contact with Morgana through the library window as he walks past her on the way to his first period class on Thursday, and she’s gracious enough to spare him a nod in response to his awkward wave. Gwen smiles at him from across the room in English, and catches him on his way out the door to discuss their project further. Merlin is surprised to find that he’s _not_ surprised when Gwaine meets him after lunch, ready to walk Merlin to class once again.

Today, Merlin catches sight of Gwaine before Gwaine catches sight of him, a result of Gwaine’s focus resting entirely on the cell phone in his hand. He’s alone today, none of the other rugby players in tow, and he’s swiping his thumb across the screen rapidly as he makes his way towards the spot where Merlin has begun to wait for him, after more than a week of making the trek to the other side of campus together. A grin spreads across his face, suddenly, and he’s close enough when it does that Merlin can see the way his eyes light up at the sight of whatever is on his screen. They stay bright as he looks up and lets his gaze fall onto Merlin.

“Merlin!” he calls enthusiastically, though they’re definitely close enough at this point that even with the chaos of the passing period, they could easily converse at a normal volume (though, for all Merlin knows, this might actually _be_ Gwaine’s normal volume). “Do you remember how I was telling you the other day about the dogs my family keeps on our ranch?”

“Yes?” It comes out sounding like a question, but Merlin really does remember: Gwaine’s family raises dogs of all different kinds at their ranch – they’re not breeders, but they’re always fostering a few dogs at any given time, and they’ve got about a dozen who live there permanently. Of those, only a few of them had actually been deliberately purchased. Some had been fosters Gwaine’s family had decided to keep, and others had been found by chance. A few had even wandered onto the property one day and never been sent away.

“Good,” Gwaine replies, something almost smug in his tone, “because I’ve got you _pictures_.” He shoves his phone under Merlin’s nose as they walk. Merlin takes it immediately, and any effort he might have considered making to stop himself from cooing utterly fails. Even just the first image (a floppy eared beagle named Blueberry, if Merlin remembers Gwaine’s anecdotes correctly) is endearing enough that Merlin can’t help but let out an involuntary _aww_–ing sound.

“You can swipe through if you’d like,” Gwaine says, “I’ve got them all in a folder.”

So Merlin does swipe through, making his way through the halls and avoiding any significant collisions with the help of his peripheral vision and Gwaine’s occasional guiding hand on his shoulder or arm.

When he gets to fourth picture, he barely manages to keep himself from choking on air. The image is of another dog, yes (an English Lab, it looks like, short legs and a round, stocky body), but the figure beside the dog is, to Merlin, at least, the most intriguing part of the photograph. It’s Arthur Pendragon, sitting on the ground in a white t-shirt and jeans (his apparel more casual, here, than Merlin has ever seen it) with his legs splayed outwards and one hand braced against the ground to support himself. His other arm is wrapped around the sturdy body of the dog, who appears to be doing his best to lick as much of Arthur’s face as he can reach. Merlin can see, even in the stillness of the photo, the fierceness with which the dog is wagging its tail, and the gentleness with which Arthur’s hand is carding through the dog’s fur, even as he tries, halfheartedly, to pull away, laughing as he does. Merlin knows that laugh; he can almost hear it now, ringing in his ears, and his throat constricts at the memory.

He moves on to the next picture (an old mutt with a missing ear that Merlin thinks must be Juniper) and the next (a massive Saint Bernard that’s likely a relatively new foster, as Merlin doesn’t remember hearing about her from Gwaine).

Much to Merlin’s distress, there are several other pictures of the same nature as the fourth – in fact, a bizarrely large portion of the images contain Arthur: wrestling on the grass with the bigger dogs, lying on his stomach in the dirt teasing the little ones, holding the puppies in his arms: sometimes just one, sometimes two or three or even four at a time. He’s smiling in every single one, white teeth and rosy cheeks and eyes that are so, so bright, and Merlin begins to feel, as he makes his way through the album Gwaine had compiled, like a plant that has begun to whither.

Merlin keeps looking because it’s the polite thing to do, when someone shows you pictures of their dogs, and ignores the way his mouth is getting drier by the second. He keeps swiping his thumb across the screen and keeps being met, again and again, by Arthur’s face, and his hands, and his arms, and the strip of tanned skin right above the waistline of his trousers, visible where his shirt had ridden up because of the way he’d been holding one of the dogs, or stretching out across the ground.

Arthur is the only actual person that appears in the pictures. That makes everything worse, because it means that Merlin can’t pretend that when he moves on to the next picture and is struck, once again, by the way the sun falls like gossamer on the planes of Arthur’s face, or the sight of his bare arms, strong and steady, or anything else about him in every one of these frozen moments, that it’s because Merlin is genuinely surprised by the presence of someone new. It’s just Arthur, catching him off guard every time, just the way it has always been. Just the way it always _was_, even back at the shop when Merlin could count on Arthur being there. Even then, when Merlin had expected it, the mere presence of Arthur had always managed without fail to make something inside of Merlin flutter desperately.

Merlin clears his throat once he gets to the last picture, handing the phone back to Gwaine. “Those were really cute,” he says, and hopes he’s imagining the hoarseness of his voice. “Thanks for showing me.”

“No problem mate; I thought you’d get a kick out of them.” Gwaine is looking at Merlin half like he’s looking for something, half like he’s already found it, and one hundred percent like whatever it is, it’s the funniest thing this side of London.

Merlin licks his lips. He shouldn’t – but he will, because he’s a great many things, and pathetic is apparently one of them. “Your friend – Pendragon? He was – does he help out with the dogs, much?”

“Oh, a bit,” Gwaine says nonchalantly. “He mostly just comes over to play with them, but he does come pretty often. Arthur _loves_ dogs.” He looks meaningfully at Merlin. “You know, I’ve always thought that while obviously dogs are great judges of character, you can also really tell a lot about someone based on how they feel about dogs. Animals in general, really – Arthur loves all animals, but dogs especially. He’s really soft on them. Well, dogs and horses. He’s got a bunch of horses back home that he absolutely adores – four of them, I think – and he completely dotes on them when he’s on hols. I mean, obviously he can’t keep them at school, and the house he and Morgana live in while they’re here doesn’t have enough land for it, so they have to stay at the actual Pendragon Estate.”

Gwaine keeps talking, but Merlin is stuck on _Pendragon Estate_. He is reminded forcefully that yes, Arthur pendragon is the kind of person who has multiple houses, which he cycles through over the course of the year. He is also apparently the kind of person who owns several horses, and being distracted by how far his shirt rides up in that picture with the German Shorthair (all the way past his _navel_, so that the V of his hips is clearly visible) is absolutely in no way productive to anything.

Repression may be one of Merlin’s most highly developed skills, but even he can’t delude himself into thinking that it’s really the dogs he’s appreciating. He likes Gwaine, honestly (unexpectedly), and a part of him really doesn’t mind how close to Arthur he obviously is; that part, in fact, is almost pathetically grateful to Gwaine whenever he does bring Arthur up. Now that Arthur has stopped coming by the shop, Merlin doesn’t see or hear from him at all, anymore. He rarely even hears _about_ Arthur, honestly, so these glimpses of Arthur’s life are nice, in a way. They almost make Merlin feel like he’s somehow managed to stay close to Arthur, even now, without the agony of having him right there and knowing that he’s still leagues away.

The other part of Merlin, though, the small, sad part of him, hates it. He doesn’t want to think of Arthur, let alone hear about him or have the reminder of how beautiful Arthur is pushed on him by Gwaine. Will keeps assuring him (always accompanied by a few commiserating nods from Freya) that Arthur had deserved Merlin’s dressing down. It’s better that Merlin doesn’t have to deal with him and the pain of him anymore. However beautiful he is, however kind he seemed, however much he had made Merlin want, he hadn’t been worth the agony.

_Will wasn’t there,_ a voice in Merlin’s head whispers; _he doesn’t know the whole story_. That, at least, is true – no one had been there, because no one (save Gaius, on rare occasions) had ever been in the shop while Arthur and Merlin were, and the shop had been the only place Arthur and Merlin had ever been together. Will doesn’t know the whole story because he _can’t_, because the story doesn’t start the day Merlin lost his temper, and it didn’t start with Arthur being an arse the way everyone who knows about it seems to think it does.

It had started every time Arthur walked into the apothecary and grinned at the sight of Merlin. It had started every day at school that Arthur never had to bother with looking away from Merlin, because he had never once looked _towards_ him in the first place. It had started every time Merlin came to school after spending the night dreaming of Arthur’s smile, only for Arthur to walk past Merlin like they didn’t know a thing about each other; like they were strangers; like they were never anything at all.

It’s the same way everyone else at Albion had walked past Merlin, up until recently, and Merlin still can’t explain that.

Gwaine and Merlin part ways, but Merlin still can’t push the encounter from his mind. It may have started in a million different ways, he thinks, but it only ended in one. People can say what they like about the importance of the journey, but here, now, the end is what matters.

Merlin can reassure himself with this, at least: even if he’s not anything to Arthur, even if Arthur isn’t anything to him, and even if Merlin hadn’t known Arthur as well as he’d deluded himself into thinking he did, he knows enough. Maybe Arthur has friends that aren’t terrible. Maybe he loves dogs and dotes on horses, and maybe he’s got a sister who _does_ know him, and loves him regardless. Maybe he’s dutifully polite to shop employees, and isn’t an outright bully at school the way Valiant and his lot are. Merlin may have been wrong about a lot, when it came to Arthur, but he’s known one thing all along: Arthur has never been within Merlin’s reach, and Merlin is better off without him.

*

Friday is movie night. Friday is always movie night for Merlin and Will and Freya; it’s a tradition nearly as old as their friendship itself. Even if one of the three of them can’t go, the other two will usually still meet up and eat an extra box of candy in honor of the missing party. The last time it had been cancelled altogether, they’d been about thirteen – Freya had been out of town for a wedding, Merlin sick in bed with the flu, and Will had never quite let them forget about it.

Ironically, Will is the one who brings it up during lunch. “About movie night this week,” he begins apologetically, “I’m _really_ sorry, but I can’t go. I got in trouble for skiving off again –”

“Perhaps if you would stop skiving off…” Freya suggests.

“Oh, shove it,” Will says, rolling his eyes. “My grades are fine, and P.E. is a joke, anyways – I’m here on a full ride football scholarship, I can run a fucking ball down the field. Anyways, they won’t give me after school detention because I’d have to miss practice, so they’re making me and a couple of other guys in the same position volunteer at some recycling plant, like, forty-five minutes north of here.” He stirs his cafeteria mashed potatoes sullenly.

“At night?” Merlin asks, doubtfully.

“Well,” Will says, shrugging, “I need eight hours – that’s two for every class I’ve skipped since term break ended –”

Freya cuts him off, looking aghast. “That’s less than two weeks ago!”

“Right,” he winces. “But they said anyone who signed up for a night shift would get double time, cause it’s more inconvenient, so I signed up figuring I’d get it over with. I really wasn’t thinking about movie night,” he continues, looking guiltily between them.

“It’s fine,” says Merlin, “Frey and I’ll eat enough candy for the three of us, no problem.”

“Oh…” says Freya, looking absolutely miserable, “Merlin, I’m so sorry – I was going to tell you, but Will got to it first – I’m busy tomorrow night, as well. Mrs. Kimber from my dad’s quilting club is going out of town for an emergency and asked me to watch her daughter. She only called about it this morning, and she sounded so upset on the phone that I couldn’t say no.”

Will and Freya are both looking regretfully at him now.

“It’s alright,” Merlin says. “No, really,” he insists when the looks on their faces turn doubtful. “Gwen – from English? I think I’ve mentioned her – actually asked me if I wanted to work on our project together on Friday, but I told her I couldn’t because of this. I’ll just text her and let her know I’m free.”

He pulls his phone out intending to do just that, but stops when he realizes that Will and Freya haven’t said a word – they haven’t moved at all, in fact, and are staring at him as if he’s just announced that he’s thinking of running for President of America. A bit of mashed potato falls off of Will’s plastic fork.

“Are you…alright?” Merlin asks. This, at least, seems to knock them out of their stupor. They both immediately start nodding vigorously.

“Yes, of course –” Freya starts, just as Will says –

“Peachy keen, mate, like always.” They pause and look at each other, and then look back at Merlin, twin smiles on their faces.

“Have fun, yeah?” says Will, “But don’t replace us too soon.”

Merlin rolls his eyes just as Freya swats at Will’s arm.

“Ignore him,” she says, rolling her eyes fondly. “The second part, I mean. _Do_ have fun, Merlin.”

“More fun than either of you will be having,” he says with a smirk that quickly evolves into laughter when Will and Freya start throwing bits of their lunch at him in retaliation. The stern warning they get from the on-duty teacher is unfortunate, but the smiles on Will and Freya’s faces puts a warmth in Merlin that’s absolutely worth it.

*

Gwen doesn’t mind at all.

_Yes!!!_ She had responded, only seconds after he’d messaged her to ask if she was still free to work on the project Friday.

12:46 PM // From: Gwen (English Class)  
_I’ll still be at school until around 5:30 when Elyan’s practice ends but you can come over around 6 if that’s okay??? I’ll have snacks!!!!_

12:46 PM// From: Merlin  
_Def okay, gives me time to finish my outline!_

12:47 PM// From: Gwen (English Class)  
_YAY okay I’ve been working on an outline too so we can compare when you get there!! See you then!!!!_

He’s pleased and, honestly, barely even surprised to find that when he does get to Gwen’s house, having walked there from the shop where he’d spent the hours after school alternating between working on the project and stocking shelves, that he’s not at all nervous to spend time alone with someone other than Will of Freya, though he hasn’t done it in years. Unless you count his conversations with Arthur at the shop, Merlin supposes – but that hadn’t been two people hanging out, had it? That was a customer and an employee making small talk, sometimes for much longer than basic social conventions dictated, but obligatory all the same.

His lack of nerves may also have something to do with Gwen’s house, which is small and timeworn, but also charming and obviously lovingly cared for. It’s a single story, white with blue shutters and a large garden out front – exactly the kind of comforting, peaceful place Merlin had pictured Gwen living, but not nearly as intimidating as he might have expected from somebody who spends so much time around Arthur Pendragon.

Gwen’s father works nights, and Elyan gone to a friend’s house soon after dropping Gwen off at home, so the house is empty but for the two of them. They go up to Gwen’s room and immediately empty their backpacks out on her floor. While they do get quite a bit of work done on their project (enough, at least, that they’re both assured that they’ll have plenty of time to complete it and their revisions before it’s actually due), Merlin realizes at some point before nine o’clock that they’ve put aside the project entirely, and have spent approximately the last forty-five minutes engaging in unapologetic gossip.

“I mean, Elyan and I are both scholarship students,” Gwen is saying, and Merlin hadn’t known that, actually, but it does it explain the house. It also, a small part of his brain whispers, explains why she’s so much less of a tosser than any of the other students at their school. “So I definitely know what you mean about how…” she hesitates here, and Merlin recognizes that her kind nature is at war with her actual opinion. “Well, how tiresome some people at school can be.”

“_God_, I know,” Merlin says, not nearly as hesitant, “I mean, not everyone is terrible, honestly, but some of the richer ones – don’t even get me started on Valiant, the absolute _Neanderthal_.”

Gwen giggles, leaning back further against the foot of her bed. “Oh, Valiant – the whole rugby team hates him, you know, after he didn’t get drafted first year and then tried to sabotage all of their equipment.”

Merlin can feel the way his eyes widen in disbelief. “No,” he says, and gapes when Gwen just nods emphatically. “What _happened_?”

“Well, I guess he blamed Arthur – I know,” she says, seeing the look on Merlin’s face, “it was absolutely ludicrous, it was just because Arthur was a firstie and got on the team. He was the only first year on the team that year, actually, and I guess Valiant didn’t consider that it might just be because Arthur’s actually just a really phenomenal player – he started being scouted earlier this year by a few league teams, did you know? I think he’s planning on university, instead, though. Anyways, he broke into the locker rooms right before school got out with spray paint and a sledgehammer –”

“A _what_ –”

“I _know_. But anyways, this was when we were still first years, obviously, so he hadn’t yet accumulated his little following of equally…er, _uncouth_ underclassmen, so he was by himself. He actually managed to do some real work with the spray paint – did all these rude drawings on the walls, and he actually wrote…” she pauses here, looking a bit uncomfortable. “Well, he wrote fuck the Knights, right across the main wall of lockers,” she says, and Merlin is inexplicably endeared by the way she lowers her voice at the expletive. “He took the paint and sprayed inside the little slots in the locker doors and got a bunch of their gear and things with it. I guess he ran out of paint, because he started trying to break into the lockers with the hammer –”

“Oh my _God_,” Merlin says, unable to contain his disbelief. “He’s even more insane than I thought.”

“I _know_,” Gwen says again, almost gleefully.

“Why didn’t anyone hear about it?”

“Valiant’s rich father, of course.” Gwen rolls her eyes, and it is possibly the most uncharitable thing he’s ever seen her do. “He hushed the whole thing up, replaced rugby equipment for the entire team, and paid to have the locker room renovated. Plus, he runs in the same circles as most of the parents, so he managed to convince them and the school to tell team not to make a big deal of it so Albion wouldn’t have to deal with the _scandal_. I only know at all because Arthur told me pretty much as soon as it happened.”

“Arthur did?” Merlin asks, surprised.

“Mm-hmm. That was the year before Elyan made the team, so he didn’t know about it. We’ve been close to Arthur and Morgana since we were kids – if it weren’t for them, Elyan and I might never have even applied to Albion, honestly. I mean, I love it there, of course,” she rushes to say, “but… I don’t know. It’s obviously a phenomenal school, but if I didn’t know I’d have people there to support me, or if I thought everyone there would be like _Valiant_… I don’t know that I would have been brave enough.”

Merlin purses his lips, nodding. “It’s… taxing, sometimes,” he agrees, “but you’re right, it really is a phenomenal school. My only other option for an education like this would be Mercia School, which is honestly just as pretentious, and is also where my _abhorrent_ ex-boyfriend goes.”

“Ex-boyfriend?” Gwen asks, looking surprised.

Merlin remembers, suddenly, that he’s not with Will, or Freya, or even Gaius – Gwen probably has no clue Merlin is gay, and Merlin has no clue how she’ll take it.

“Ah – yes? I mean, he was barely my boyfriend, really, I don’t even think it counts.” Gwen doesn’t answer, just looks at him, and he feel something sink heavily in his stomach. “Sorry, should I…”

“No!” Gwen squeaks immediately, apparently wrenched out of her stupor, “You just caught me off guard, I think it’s wonderful! It’s really, really great – I’m so glad!”

“Sorry, what?”

Gwen’s eyes widen in alarm. “That is, I mean – not that it’s important – not that it’s _not_ important! I just mean it’s nice to have more gay friends!”

“I –”

Her voice rises even further in pitch. “Not because I’m trying to _collect_ gay friends, or anything, because that would be weird – not that having gay friends is weird!” she exclaims, her eyes wide and distressed, “I just mean – _I’m_ gay! Well, bisexual. So is my boyfriend, Lance? I don’t know if you’ve met him, yet. We’re both out, so might have already known –”

“Er, no,” Merlin says, and now that the panic has dissipated, he can feel the corners of his lips curving upwards into a smile. “I didn’t, actually, but I’m glad I do. It’s nice to know.”

Gwen sighs, relieved. “It really is,” she says. “I’ve known Arthur since before we all went to school together. He and Morgana were my best friends. They still are, really, but before _he_ came out I was always – not afraid exactly, but anxious. I knew in my head that it would probably be fine, but whenever I tried to get the words out…”

Though he hadn’t known Arthur Pendragon had any gay friends, Merlin, like everyone else, _had_ known that Arthur himself was gay. He’d come out first year, and it had been the hottest gossip at Albion Academy for about a month before everyone had promptly gotten over it. Of course, even when people _were_ talking about it, it was never to Arthur’s face, and it was mostly girls bemoaning the fact that it meant they’d never have a chance with him. Whether out of respect for Arthur or even just deference to the Pendragon name, it hadn’t really mattered, in the end. Despite knowing this, Merlin has a feeling that if _he_ were to come out so publically, he would have a very different experience.

“I get it,” Merlin says honestly, “I mean, I know that there are gay people at our school, and it’s not a huge deal, for them. Freya and Will know about me, obviously, and if someone asked me outright I wouldn’t deny it, but…I mean, I get enough shite from Valiant and all those other pricks, and that’s already one of their favorite things to throw around. I don’t need to give them more ammunition, or give anyone else a concrete reason to have a problem with me.”

Gwen puts a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Merlin,” she says sounding genuinely upset, “I’m so sorry – I didn’t know –”

He shrugs. “It’s not a huge deal – no, it really isn’t,” he assures her. “If it wasn’t that, they’d find something else. Who and what I like is my business anyways. It’s not for anyone else to know unless I decide it is.”

“Of course,” Gwen says earnestly, “I won’t tell anyone.”

Merlin chuckles lightly. “Nah, I trust your judgement – tell whoever you want. Come out for me and save me the trouble.”

“That should be some kind of service,” Gwen laughs, her eyes lighting up. “Can you imagine the tagline? “This company will tell people you’re gay so you don’t have to!””

“Skip the awkward conversations,” Merlin quips, “let us handle them for you!”

“Don’t know how to come out of the closet? We’ve brought a hammer, and we’re ready to bring it down around you!”

They both dissolve into giggles, at that, slumping to the floor and clutching their stomachs.

After they’ve recovered, wiping away wetness at the corners of their eyes, Gwen sits up and fixes Merlin with a sly look that reminds him startlingly of Morgana. “So…ex-boyfriend?”

Merlin groans loudly. “I shouldn’t have even _mentioned_ that.”

“Is he really that bad?” she asks, intrigued.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “The _worst_. He barely counts, like I said. I was fourteen and we went on two dates before we called it official. It lasted for less than a week, and then he started trying to get me to join his _cult_.”

“His _what_?” Gwen nearly shrieks.

So he tells her about Mordred, and by the end of the story they’re both screaming with laughter. Merlin goes home that night with a mostly finished project, a stomach sore from laughing so hard, and an invitation from Gwen to come back any time.

*

Merlin doesn’t actually have any books that need to be returned, nor is he looking to pick up anything new, but he’s recently gotten into the habit of stopping in to say _hi_ to Morgana. She’s made it her business to know everything about the English project Merlin and Gwen are working on, and seems to have assigned herself the responsibility of making sure they have all of the materials they could ever even conceive of needing.

“I don’t think you’ll have read these,” she had said as she handed him a thick stack of books the last time he’d come in, two days before, “and _this_ one is just related to general character archetypes – I’ve bookmarked the chapters I think you’ll be most interested in. You’d think it would be dull as rock, but it’s actually an _incredibly_ provoking read.”

It’s one of things she has in common with Arthur, he’s noticed: the almost childlike excitement that breaks through their posh exteriors when they come across something they’re passionate about. Morgana is passionate about literature of all kinds; maybe their taste isn’t exactly the same, but Arthur had loved books this way, too. He still does, probably, but Merlin wouldn’t know; though Merlin seems to have made friends with half the people who associate with Arthur, Arthur himself has remained entirely absent from Merlin’s life. Merlin’s never said anything about the similarities between Arthur and Morgana, largely because he doubts it’s common knowledge that Merlin has ever spoken to Arthur at all. Bringing up all of the things that Merlin shouldn’t know about Arthur but _does_ because Arthur had been the one to tell him would feel like a sort of betrayal (who he’d be betraying, though, Merlin can’t quite figure out).

While his trips to the library have become increasingly more common in recent weeks, he has a legitimate excuse to be visiting Morgana today: He and Gwen had baked cookies the night before after Merlin let it slip that despite working in an apothecary, he really is an abysmal cook. They’re macadamia nut (Elyan had specifically requested the flavor, after he’d walked into the kitchen and seen what they were up to) which is apparently Morgana’s favorite, but as Gwen spends Friday mornings volunteering at the elementary school for her child development elective, she’d asked Merlin apologetically if he would mind bringing them by the library for Morgana in the morning, if he was able.

“No problem at all,” he’d said truthfully. It really was no problem to fill a tupperware with the cookies and bring them home with him to be delivered in the morning. “I’ll probably have to go in anyways – she’s started giving me absolutely _deadly_ looks whenever I walk by without stopping in – not that I wouldn’t, anyways! But it is a bit frightening.” He had given a mock shudder, grinning when Gwen laughed.

“That just means she likes you,” Gwen had insisted, and Merlin laughed, knowing that it was the truth.

He knows that Morgana is expecting him this morning, but even still he’s surprised by how quickly she appears at his side when he arrives.

“Hey Morgana,” he says, already opening his backpack and pulling the tupperware out. “I’ve got a special delivery from Gwen.”

She takes the box from him eagerly. He expects her to lose some of the intensity in her gaze, now that she’s got her hands on the deserts, but instead she glances at them only briefly before setting them aside, placing them on the cart next to her before turning back towards Merlin.

“Go to the rugby game with me tonight.”

“What?”

He doesn’t realize until Morgana’s shoulders drop that she’d been holding herself so tensely. She sighs, blowing a strand of hair out from in front of her face.

“Thank you for the cookies,” she says, less tersely than before. “Go to the rugby game with me tonight, _please_. It will be fun. We’ll meet Gwen, and I know you know a few of the guys – Gwaine, Elyan, Percival, Leon, and Lance at least, right?” She asks, successfully naming every player on the rugby team he’s even spoken to, with the exception of the one who’s actively refusing to speak to him. “I think you’d really like it. It’ll be _fun_,” she insists again, like repetition will surely be what convinces him.

He stares at her for a moment, blinking rapidly.

“Have you got something in your eye?” Morgana asks, tilting her head to the side.

“Er – no. No, sorry, that’s nice of you to offer? I really do appreciate it,” he rushes to assure her, “but sports and I don’t really mix well, is the thing. So…”

Morgana rolls her eyes. “Well it’s not like I’m going to toss you out on to the field and expect you to _play_. But you should come with me. Like I said, Gwen will be there, and some of the guys you know. And,” she pauses here, looking peculiarly at Merlin, “as my brother is captain, he’ll be playing as well.”

“Your brother.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hums, drawing out the sounds. “Arthur. Do you know him?”

It feels like all of the breath has left his body. “Ah – I, um…” he stutters, trying not to choke on his own tongue, “Vaguely?”

How much should he tell her, he wonders – how much does she know? Had Arthur ever mentioned him? Is it delusional of Merlin even just to wonder if he had? Does she know about Arthur’s trips to Gaius’s apothecary at all? Does she know about how _often_? She had asked if Merlin knew him – does it even count as knowing someone, if the only place you ever speak to them is the shop where you work? Probably not, he thinks. Merlin reminds himself again that however well he might have liked to imagine he’d known Arthur Pendragon, it was only ever exactly that: his imagination.

“I mean, I know _of_ him,” Merlin settles on, “but we’re not –”

“Perfect!” She grins, catlike, looking genuinely pleased for the first time this morning. “Then you can meet _him_ tonight, as well. The game is at six, but we want good seats so I’ll pick you up at...how does a quarter after five sound?”

If he factors in the time it takes to get home _and_ the time it will take to actually get ready, that only leaves about an hour between when school ends and when Morgana arrives for him to panic – not nearly enough time.

She takes his lack of response as an agreement. “Five-fifteen it is! Here,” she says, fishing her phone out of her pocket and handing it over to him. “Put your information in my phone – I’ll text you so you have my number, and then you can text me your address so I know where to go.”

Merlin recognizes a lost cause when he sees one. He sighs, doing as she had instructed and resigning himself to an evening of, if he’s lucky, only minor levels of constant distress. Unfortunately for Merlin, he’s rarely ever lucky.

*

It’s Friday, again. That means that tonight is movie night, and he’s completely forgotten.

“Oh,” Merlin says when he spots Will waiting for Merlin and Freya outside of their last class of the day, just like he does every Fridays. “Oh, fuck.”

“What is it?” Freya asks, looking concerned. “Did you forget something?”

“No,” says, Merlin. “I mean – yes, but not – I forgot _movie night_.”

“That’s fine if you didn’t get candy,” Will says easily, “we can stop off at my place–”

“No,” interrupts Merlin, “I mean – Morgana asked me to go with her to the rugby game tonight, and I wasn’t even thinking of what day it was or anything, and honestly I said no at first but she strong armed me into it, a bit–” he’s been staring hazily at a point just between their shoulders up until now, but he brings his gaze up sharply, looking between the two of them. “I’ll – I can cancel, though, I’ll just text her…” he pulls his phone out, already tapping at the screen.

He hasn’t even finished typing the word _‘sorry’_ when Will swipes the phone right out of his hand. He glances down at it, turning the screen so Freya can see. “What do you know,” he says, raising an eyebrow and looking rather impressed, “you actually _do_ have Morgana Pendragon’s number.”

“Yes,” says Merlin, “I know. I just said so. Give it back so I can cancel.”

“Hmm,” hums Will. “Nah.” He holds his thumb down on the delete button until Merlin’s barely composed message is completely gone, and then clicks the power button, letting the screen go dark. He reaches around Merlin and puts the phone into the front pocket of Merlin’s backpack. Freya watches the whole thing with something like approval in her gaze. Will leans back, grinning lazily when he’s done.

“What the hell?” Merlin asks, honestly baffled and the smallest bit peeved.

“We think you should go,” Freya says, smiling gently.

“You think I should _what_?”

“Go to the game,” Freya repeats patiently, “with Morgana.”

“You… do you _want_ me to miss movie night?”

“We want you to have _fun_, you git,” says Will, rolling his eyes.

“I have fun at movie night,” Merlin insists.

“We all do.” Freya’s voice is soft. “There’s nothing wrong with branching out, though. It’s probably the opposite of wrong, really.”

“Look,” Merlin starts, “it’s really no problem–”

“_You_ look, Merls,” Will cuts him off firmly. Merlin is so surprised that he immediately stops talking, which Will has no problem taking advantage of.

“We know you’re not replacing us. We know you like hanging around with us, and having movie nights and doing all of the other things we’ve been doing forever. We like it too. We _love_ it. But that doesn’t mean that it’s all you can have.”

“It’s good that you’re hanging out with new people,” Freya adds. “We wouldn’t be saying it if it wasn’t true. It's just… you seem so much _happier_, ever since you started talking to Gwaine and Morgana and Gwen and Lance and the rest of them.”

Freya has never actually spoken to a single one of those people in her life, Merlin knows. He realizes for the first time how much he must have spoken about them, for her to know their names by heart.

“Yeah?” He asks meekly. “Even if they’re friends with Arthur Pendragon?”

Will fakes a shudder. “I _suppose_,” he says, laughing when Freya flicks him in the shoulder. “Look mate,” he says, turning serious, “it’s not that Frey and I don’t love having you to ourselves–” he smiles, wiggling his eyebrows, and laughs when Merlin just scoffs and rolls his eyes “–but you always seem like you have a good time with them. You deserve a good time, Merls. I mean it. Just cause these other dickheads act like none of us are worth shite because we don’t have a last name associated with disgusting amounts of cash and interbreeding–” he cuts himself off as Merlin and Freya both let out light, choked-off laughs.

“That’s not nice,” Merlin says when he’s composed himself well enough to manage it. “They’re not all like that.”

“Not _all_ of them,” Will stresses, rolling his eyes, “but enough of them that it’s definitely noticeable. I mean, just look at Valiant – you can’t tell me that his pedigree chart doesn’t look more like a family tumbleweed than a family tree.”

“That’s fair,” Merlin admits readily, and Freya, still giggling, nods in agreement.

“_But_,” Will announces loudly, prodding a finger into Merlin’s chest, “that’s not the point. The point is that you deserve nice things, and to be around nice people. If it took them this long to see that, it’s because they’re idiots, not because you don’t deserve it. Now that they _are_ seeing it, though, you should get what you deserve.”

“Which is why you’re not going to cancel,” says Freya, and she’s smiling. “You’re going to _go_, and you’re going to have a wonderful time.”__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few points of order:
> 
> Gwaine’s family take such good care of all of the dogs and they hire people to help care for them because they have so many. they’re very very happy dogs. 
> 
> Yes Gwaine is absolutely trying to wingman Arthur by showing Merlin hot pics of him with puppies/dropping hints about Arthur's good qualities like loving dogs lmao
> 
> Yes the cookies were a plot conceived of by Gwen and Morgana to make SURE that Merlin would stop by the library the morning of the game so that Morgana could strong arm him into going. Morgana had to do it and not Gwen bc Morgana can be much more “convincing” (read threatening) and also Morgana can drive herself but Gwen gets rides to the game with Elyan bc they share a car.
> 
> Also it's looking like this will actually be 6 chapters, not 5!
> 
> Next Chapter: will Arthur and Merlin finally get to talk???? stick around to find out ;)


	3. on the field I remember (you were incredible)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin attends a rugby game. So do quite a few other people. This includes, unfortunately, the rugby team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my second upload in like 15 mins because ao3 ate my chapter so sorry about that!! 
> 
> I am SO EXCITED to be posting this chapter! It contains the first two scenes I ever wrote for this fic, so I guess we have the big feelings they gave me to thank for this fic existing on here at all:-) 
> 
> also I'm just letting you guys know now that I don't know literally anything about rugby, but hopefully that won't matter too much lol

At exactly 5:14 PM, his phone pings several times in rapid succession. He’s already moving towards the door as he looks down to read the messages:

5:14 PM// From: Morgana Pendragon  
_I’m here_

5:14 PM// From: Morgana Pendragon  
_I think_

5:15 PM// From: Morgana Pendragon  
_Is your house the blue one? Very cute_

5:15 PM// From: Morgana Pendragon  
_I think I’m here come outside and I guess we’ll find out lol_

He’s smiling, he realizes as he steps out the door, but it only lasts until he actually lays his eyes on the car that’s parked outside of his house: It’s a bright cherry red, impeccably clean, all sleek lines and sharp edges, and probably worth more than everything Merlin owns combined. One of the darkly tinted windows rolls down to reveal a grinning Morgana, who waves at his frozen form.

“Come on, Merlin,” she calls enthusiastically, “we haven’t got all night!”

He makes his way towards her, trying (and, honestly, probably failing) not to stare too obviously. He opens the door tenderly (conscious of dirt and fingerprints and wondering if it’s possible to infect things with one’s own _poorness_), and finds an overly large sweater draped over the passenger seat.

“That’s for you to wear.” Morgana says.

He picks it up to avoid sitting on it and climbs into the car. “I’ve already got a sweater.”

“You do,” she allows, “but you’re also _severely_ lacking in school spirit, as I thought you would be. Put on your seatbelt.” He does so without protest, and as soon as he’s buckled in, the car is moving. “We’ve got to support our team,” she continues, “and I had a feeling you didn’t have any Knights merch, so I did the magnanimous thing and procured something for you to wear so that you wouldn’t be embarrassed.”

“How generous of you,” he grouches.

Her eyes stay on the road, but the corners of her mouth flick upwards. “I _am_ a very generous person, yes. Very giving. Always doing favors for friends and beloved siblings, even if they don’t appreciate me for it.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he goes to put on the sweatshirt. He’s got his arms through and is about to pull it over his head when he stops cold.

“_Pendragon_,” he squeaks.

“That is my name, yes.”

“It’s also your _brother’s_ name, and the name on this sweatshirt! Is this your brother’s?”

“Yes, Merlin, it’s my brother’s.” Merlin can’t see her face, isn’t looking at her at all, really (too focused on the soft, red, terrifying sweatshirt in his hands), but he can tell just from her tone of voice that she’s rolling her eyes. “I know you’re awfully thin, but I doubt any of my clothes would fit you, even if there _was_ anything in my closet you’d consider being caught dead in.”

“I can’t wear this,” he hisses at a pitch that would make a tea kettle jealous. “I can’t – does he _know_? Did you ask, or am I going to show up and get mauled by half the rugby team because I stole Arthur Pendragon’s clothes and then wore them out in _public_?”

Morgana lets out a sigh so large Merlin is surprised it had fit in her body at all. “First off, I stole it, not you. Second, I know some of the boys on the team can act a bit thick sometimes – trust me, I _know_ – but they’re not brutish. And third…” she pauses here, and Merlin is sure that it’s half for dramatic effect and half just to look smug, “I can promise you that whatever possibilities await us, Arthur having a problem with you wearing his clothes is _not_ one of them.”

*

Morgana isn’t wrong often, Merlin thinks, but she was very, _very_ wrong about this.

They arrive at the field before the game has even started, and Morgana leads him through the crowds and towards the stands. Both teams are on the field warming up with a few light drills, and for a moment, Merlin thinks he might get lucky and avoid interacting with the them entirely. Almost as soon as the thought crosses his mind, of course, the coach blows his whistle and dismisses the players back towards the team benches.

It happens almost in slow motion: Arthur turns away from the field with the rest of his team, and begins to jog towards the bench. He’s mid-step when he sees Merlin, standing on the edge of the field with Morgana. This surprises him, Merlin can tell, but not half so much as when he glances down and sees what Merlin is wearing. He nearly trips, coming to an abrupt stop halfway between them and center field, forcing the rest of his team behind him to skid to a stop as well. A few of them run right into each other, and one person collides directly with Arthur’s back. It jostles Arthur, but not enough make a difference; not enough to make him take his eyes off of Merlin.

The rugby team, almost as a whole, follows Arthur’s line of sight over to where Morgana and Merlin are standing, and most of them immediately start snickering. Merlin watches as Arthur’s face slowly turns pink, and he’s left behind on the field as the rest of the team recovers themselves and heads, still jostling each other and tittering quietly amongst themselves, towards the benches.

“_See_!” Merlin hisses, whirling to look at Morgana, “I _told_ you!” She obviously does not see, because she doesn’t look alarmed at all – in fact, she looks rather satisfied. He steps behind her, unashamed to admit that he’s cowering, and his brain is split, for the next few moments, between sheer panic and the thought that someone should really make a sport out of trying to hide behind women who are significantly smaller than you; it’s harder than it looks, for one, and as with all sports, Merlin is definitely very bad at it, if Arthur’s unrelenting stare and the continued jeering gazes of the rest of the rugby team are anything to go by. “He’s angry, God – I knew it, he probably thinks I _stole this_ –”

Morgana turns around sharply to glare at Merlin. “Stop hiding,” she snaps. “God, you really do deserve each other –”

“We _what_?” he yelps, adjusting his own position so that she’s still standing between him and the field. He tries to focus on avoiding Arthur’s eyes entirely and begins looking rapidly between Morgana and the rest of Arthur’s team, now at the benches and apparently arguing about something – or perhaps not? Some of them look like they’re laughing –

Morgana grabs him suddenly by the arms with a surprising amount of strength, considering how small she is, and uses that leverage to turn them both around until they’ve swapped places, and he is no longer facing the field. He tries to give her his full attention, but can’t help but be distracted by the voice in the back of his head that has suddenly started in on what is quite frankly a very stressful tirade on the strategic disadvantages of such a position: _sneak attacks,_ the voice whispers. _It’ll be fifteen to one, you’ll never see them coming_ –

Morgana, still gripping his forearms, shakes him a little, and he tries to relax as much as he can - his shoulders are nearly at his ears, he’s so stiff. “You’re both _idiots_,” Morgana mutters. “_Complete_ buffoons.” She must see something on his face because her expression and grip both soften. “Don’t get me wrong, I really do like you - I didn’t expect to, much, but you’ve grown on me quite a bit. That doesn’t mean you’re not thick as a brick, though, honestly…though, of course, that may just be because you’re a boy.”

She rolls her eyes as she says it, and Merlin is caught somewhere between touched and offended – or he would be at least, if he wasn’t stuck on –

“You – what do you mean you didn’t think you’d like me?” he demands. “Why even talk to me if you thought that?”

Merlin is normally very much invested in the pursuit of knowledge, but the smile on her face makes him wish, suddenly, that he hadn’t asked.

“You’re smart, Merlin,” she says, her voice nearly a purr. “You can figure it out.”

“Can I?” he demands again, “Can I really? I was always confused about why you, of all people, would even look at me, let alone speak to me, and then _keep_ speaking to me. Honestly, I don’t know why I didn’t ask sooner –”

The smile slips from her face. “Me, of all people? What does that mean?”

“It _means_ that you – that you’re –” he tries to flap his arms around a bit, to gesture to… well, all of her, but she’s still got a grip like a vice on both of his arms. He settles instead, for saying, “You’re a Pendragon.”

“And what has _that_ got to do with anything?”

“_Everything_!” he explodes. “You’re beautiful and rich, and you and your friends basically run half the school without even trying – and you being in charge won’t stop when we all leave here! You’ll just be running the world, instead, because that’s just what you were born into. Your place at Albion Academy was reserved practically before you even existed, and you act like it’s no big deal because it isn’t, to you, and it’s because _you’re a Pendragon_. People like you don’t talk to people like me. You don’t look at us, or think of us, or speak to us, and you especially don’t reserve useful books for us at the library and say hello to us in the halls, or pick us up for sports games and steal your fit brother’s jerseys for us to wear! You don’t _do_ that!”

“And why _not_?” Morgana demands.__

“Because that’s something friends do!”

“Merlin. Merlin, we _are_ friends. At least, I –” and here, she stumbles over her words for the first time since Merlin has known her. “I thought we were. You’re right, those are all things friends do. They’re things I do with my friends, and they’re things I do with you.”

“But _why_?”

“Because I like you, Merlin. I just said so, didn’t I? Isn’t that enough?”

“That’s not what I meant. Why did you start talking to me, in the first place? Why did you _keep_ talking to me?”

She purses her lips. “Well…we kept talking to you because we like you.”

Merlin feels, suddenly, like someone who has walked into the showing of a mystery film halfway through – he is certain that something utterly absurd going on here, but he has absolutely no clue what.

“We?” he asks weakly.

“And we _started_ talking to you because we had – let’s call it a vested interest in fixing what my idiot brother wrecked, as well as making sure you were… up to snuff, I suppose. Lucky for everyone, it turns out we all adore you.”

“You _all_?” he repeats, even fainter this time.

She’s smiling again, even wider now, and it’s all teeth. If Arthur Pendragon had ever smiled at Merlin like this, Merlin surely would have pissed himself – but Merlin trusts Morgana. Or at least, he wants to. He had liked Arthur enough (had possibly liked him too much, in fact), but had Merlin every really trusted him?

Even before everything had come to a head, during those brief breaks from reality in which Merlin had entertained the thought that Arthur might be different from the other pricks they went to school with (that Arthur might be _better_), there had always been an undercurrent of preemptive grief; there had always been the fear, persistent in the back of his mind, that one way or another Arthur would wreck Merlin utterly, if Merlin let him get close enough to do so. Merlin had consoled himself, in the brief moments he had spent thinking bitterly back on the aftermath their confrontation, that at least he hadn’t let Arthur do it himself. The gun had always been loaded, but at least the trigger had been pulled on Merlin’s own terms.

However he had felt about Arthur, Merlin had always believed that he knew, deep down, the kind of person Arthur was. Now, though…

Now Merlin knows Morgana, who may be planning several high-collar crimes at any given time, but who is smart and sharp and generous, and who cares so ardently but so silently about the people around her that Merlin wouldn’t have believed it just a few weeks ago. She’s a good friend to have.

She’s a good person.

So is Gwen, who Merlin counts as a friend now but who was Arthur’s friend first, who is honest and patient and good, who bakes cookies for people just because, and who devotes herself, always, to helping others.

So is Gwaine, who’s loud and obnoxious, and who picked a half-conscious Merlin up off the floor and took him to get help without even knowing who he was, and now walks Merlin to class every day because he knows it makes Merlin feel safer when he does.

So is Elyan, who’s so much like Gwen that it makes Merlin laugh sometimes to think about. So is Lance, who also helped haul Merlin to the nurse’s office despite not knowing a thing about him, and who is so famously kind that not even Will, who despises the rugby team on principle, can find a rude word to say about him. So are Leon and Percival. So are quite a few of the people who tend to hang around Arthur.

So Arthur Pendragon seems to surround himself with good people, and Merlin can’t help but wonder how he does it. The only explanation is that Arthur Pendragon must, himself, be good as well. Merlin had known all along that Arthur was special, but the thought that Arthur might also be _good_ is something of a revelation.

Merlin thinks of Arthur, and the miserable, desolate look of him that last day in Uncle Gaius’s shop. He thinks of every terrible joke he’d ever cracked while ringing Arthur up at the till, and the way Arthur had groaned, had rolled his eyes, had ridiculed Merlin’s sense of humor, and had still snorted with laughter every single time. He thinks of the way Arthur’s friends talk about him to Merlin, exasperated and fond and protective and admiring all at once. He thinks of the way Arthur helps Gwen and Lance set up for philanthropy events at the school, but is never allowed to participate in bake sales because he’s so unbelievably awful in the kitchen. He thinks of the way Arthur had looked – thrilled and flushed and covered in dirt – in the pictures Gwaine had shown Merlin (and now Merlin wonders if Gwaine had really shown him those pictures because of the dogs, or if there had been an ulterior motive). He thinks of the blue of Arthur’s eyes, the gold of his hair, the broadness of his back and the strength of his hands and his shoulders and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs.

Merlin very nearly stops breathing. He is suddenly very certain of three things: first, he was wrong about Arthur. He must have been. Second, he wants to know Arthur the way Arthur’s friends do, almost to the point of desperation. And third –

“Morgana,” he says, and if his voice is a little strained, Morgana is kind enough not to point it out. “I need to sit down. I think I’m…”

“In love?” she asks, hopefully.

“Having an existential crisis.”

“Oh,” she grimaces, “I’m not so good at those. Neither is my brother, really, but I think he’d probably be best, in this case.” Before Merlin can choke out a response to that, she’s releasing his arms and glancing over his shoulder, raising her voice slightly and saying, “You can take it from here, I’m assuming? After I’ve already done all the heavy lifting, of course.”

And then there is a voice speaking from behind Merlin, which means there is a _person_ behind him, and that person is saying, “I really do hate you. Father always says I’m exaggerating when I say you were put on this earth to torment me –”

“It’s not that you’re exaggerating, it’s that you’re being, as usual, woefully big-headed. Honestly, Merlin,” Morgana says, turning her gaze back onto to him, “he really is so full of himself, isn’t he, thinking that someone as incredible as me was put on this earth just for his benefit?”

Merlin has not moved, has not so much as breathed, since he first heard the voice behind him, and he is as grateful as he is terrified when the voice saves him from having to provide an answer. “Trust me,” it says dourly, “I’m quite aware you’ve never done anything for my benefit.”

She glances between Merlin and the voice over his shoulder before settling her gaze on the voice’s owner. “Really?” she asks coyly, raising an eyebrow. “Not anything?” Her question is met with silence, and she laughs, once, sharp but genuine. “I really do love it when you make that face, Arthur – constipation is _such_ a good look on you.”

“_Morgana_ –” the voice bites out, and now that Morgana has said his name out loud, Merlin can’t continue to pretend that it could be anyone other than Arthur Pendragon. He’d known all along it was; Merlin would have recognized that voice anywhere, be it the rugby field or a crowded airport, under water or in his dreams. He had been hoping, though, that he could stay where he was, facing away from the voice (and it is such a nice voice, really, smooth and deep and posh in a way that makes Merlin want to figure out why, makes Merlin wants to see if he can figure out the difference in the way they speak using just his _tongue_ –). He had been hoping he could ignore it, and that Arthur would go away, and Merlin could pretend that Arthur Pendragon never watched him have a minor implosion of self on the side of the school rugby field while being held up by Arthur’s sister.

Arthur’s sister, who is rolling her eyes and smiling again, smaller and less scary but no less real, and saying, “Yes, yes, I’m leaving now. I’ll be sitting with Gwen when you’re done, Merlin, up there at the top.” she points to the bleachers, where sure enough, he can see Gwen up in the top left corner, waving enthusiastically to someone one the field. “Come find us when you’re finished, alright? You’ve only got about...” she glances down at her watch (diamond encrusted, of course, and probably worth more than his house), “twelve minutes to game time, so. Make it count, I suppose.” Then, with a wink and a flip of her braid, long and dark and so different from Arthur’s golden halo of hair, she’s walking away without so much as a backwards glance.

Merlin resolutely does not turn around. This is partly because if he moves at all, he really thinks he might just collapse entirely. The other reason, though, is that he is still willing to pretend, if Arthur or God or whoever is making the decisions right now (because it sure as hell isn’t Merlin) will allow it, that the entirety of the last ten minutes never happened, so that Arthur can walk away and forget that he ever even learned Merlin’s name.

Neither God nor Arthur seem to be so kind.

“Er…” Arthur coughs lightly from behind them, “I really am sorry. About Morgana, I mean. She’s a bit… much.”

Merlin continues on with his best tree impression and with hating himself very much, and does absolutely nothing else.

“I… are you alright? Merlin?” Arthur asks after a brief pause, and there’s something a bit like worry in his voice. That shakes Merlin, but even more jostling is the sound of his name leaving Arthur’s mouth. Merlin hasn’t heard that sound in weeks – not since that last, disastrous encounter at the shop. They haven’t spoken at all, really, since the last time Merlin had said _Arthur’s_ name, had used that name against him. It’s enough of a jolt that he’s finally able to unstick his frozen joints and turn around.

He does so slowly, and immediately feels stupid for hoping that somehow, he would not come directly face to face with Arthur. This is, of course what happens. The next thing that happens is Merlin, realizing that Arthur is actually _much_ closer than he had anticipated, takes a hurried step away and immediately trips backwards over his own feet. Time seems to slow, for a moment, and Merlin inwardly resigns himself to landing on his arse in front of a boy he has only just realized he may be legitimately, romantically interested in, despite the fact that they are quite obviously in different leagues. On different continents, really.

Merlin can picture exactly how it will transpire: Arthur will probably laugh a little and then apologize, because he is apparently not as much of a dickhead as Merlin had thought. He might even offer to help Merlin up, though it would be fine if he didn’t, honestly, because Merlin thinks that if they touch he may immediately catch fire and burn up right here on the field. What Arthur will definitely do, though, is ask how Merlin got his sweater, and Merlin will apologize and give it back, and then he will be forced to walk home alone and sweater-less, because he’d left his own sweater in Morgana’s car, and she’s his ride, and he can’t ask her to leave when the game hasn’t even started yet.

None of that actually happens, though. Instead, Arthur lurches forwards, reaching out, grabbing Merlin around the arm with one hand and around the waist with the other, and pulling him back upright in a display of agility and strength that Merlin labels in his head as _“a bit dizzying,”_ so as to avoid the humiliation of calling it _“the hottest thing Merlin has ever seen.”_ Arthur steadies Merlin, but doesn’t move away. Merlin can’t seem make his body move either, and the effect is that they are even closer now than they were before.

“Oh!” Merlin yelps frantically, “_Sorry,_ I’m sorry, I didn’t –”

“It’s not your fault,” says Arthur, both reassuring and exasperated at the same time. “It really isn’t. It’s – well, it’s my sister’s, definitely, and my friends, a bit… and I suppose also my own, to some extent, but it really isn’t yours. I promise,” he says, obviously noticing that his words have had done nothing at all to calm Merlin, “I don’t blame you in the slightest.”

“How – how is it _your_ fault?”

Arthur swallows, and Merlin tracks the movement. This close, Merlin can see every facet in the blue of his eyes, and each individual golden eyelash that frames them.

“Oh,” Arthur begins, then stops, clearing his throat somewhat abashedly. “Well, I’m afraid they’ve got it in their heads – that is, they’ve found out that I, ah…rather admire you.”

“Admire me?” Merlin is astounded that he has breath enough to keep himself conscious, let alone to speak, but he’d proud of himself for managing.

“Well…yes.” Arthur clears his throat again, and Merlin spends a moment wondering if this is the way rich people are taught to deal with embarrassment: clear your throat and purse your lips but keep eye contact and pretend as if there’s nothing embarrassing happening at all. Arthur’s hands (strong and warm and steady) are still on him, he realizes. He’d forgotten, so caught up in the moment, and thinks that perhaps he’s not the only one.

“That is to say,” Arthur continues, “I’d very much like to take you out.”

“Oh,” says Merlin dimly. “I was right.”

Arthur raises both of his eyebrows in clear surprise. “Er… were you?” he asks, sounding simultaneously relieved and alarmed.

“Yes. You’re going to have me done in.”

“I’m _what_?” demands Arthur, suddenly looking rather horrified.

“Killed,” Merlin clarifies inanely, “murdered, assassinated – how important does someone have to be, do you think, before it counts as an assassination and not a murder?”

Arthur pulls back, finally, though not completely – they’re no longer pressed so closely together, but Arthur has kept one hand no Merlin’s upper arms and another lightly on his hip, as though afraid Merlin might tip over at any second. “Assassinations are political,” he says.

“So I won’t count anyways.”

“No, you won’t – _wouldn’t_,” he says suddenly, as if remembering something very important. “You _wouldn’t_, even if I was – even if you _were_– what did you say? If you were going to be ‘_done in_?’ But you’re not. _I’m_ not. Doing you in, I mean.” He looks at Merlin intensely, apparently very keen on making his point.

“I’m confused,” says Merlin.

“I promise,” Arthur says sincerely, “that you are not more confused than I am.”

“I yelled at you in my uncle’s shop,” Merlin tries to explain, only a little hysterically. “I ran you out of the building and then you stopped coming altogether, even though you’ve been coming in twice a week for nearly two years, at _least_. And then your scary-handsome rugby friend Gwaine started coming up to me in the halls, being cryptic and telling me weird things about you and asking me personal questions, and _then_ your terrifying sister – who I really do like by the way, but she _is_ terrifying – started talking to me and giving me books and telling me things about you and – and _doing_ things, like inviting me to your rugby games where all of your large and scary friends are, and giving me your sweater to wear even though it’s sure to make you angry, and just being generally frightening!”

He’s picked up the pace now, speaking so quickly he can barely get the words out, feeling like if he doesn’t then something inside of him – the place where all of these words are being kept, maybe – might burst. “When Gwen started talking to me I didn’t think there was anything suspicious about that because she’s so nice, but now I’m wondering if maybe the whole point was to get me to let my guard down? Or maybe figure out my weaknesses, even though that would be a huge waste of time because I have _so many_ weaknesses, really, you could really try anything and it would probably work. And then, after all of that, you finally decide to speak to me outside of my uncle’s apothecary for literally the first time _ever_, and it’s to tell that you wanted to _“take me out.”_ What am I _supposed_ to think?”

Arthur looks at Merlin for a long moment. “You’re supposed to think,” he says, finally, “that I stopped coming into the shop because I was embarrassed, and guilty, and I thought you hated me. I didn’t think you’d want me to come back. You’re supposed to think that my sister accosted you because she’s insane and wanted to evaluate you, or whatever, and also ruin things for me, because that’s one of the few things that makes her genuinely happy. You’re supposed to think that that my friends started bothering you because they’re incurably nosy and have no bloody boundaries, and they decided they were going to play matchmaker for me whether I agreed to it or not. You’re supposed to think that I’ve had an embarrassingly large crush on you for ages, and that I was trying to ask you on a date.”

He pauses and then asks, a little sullenly, “Do you really think Gwaine is handsome?” and then, a little alarmed, “What _kinds_ of weird things did he tell you?”

Merlin does not answer either of those questions. “Oh my God,” he says instead. “Okay. Well, you actually can go ahead and kill me now. Anyone is welcome to, really.”

Arthur laughs a little but doesn’t answer, looking bewildered and endeared at the same time.

“I won’t hold you to it, either,” Merlin continues. “The date, I mean. You can back out if you’d like.”

Arthur stops laughing, and looks, if possible, even more baffled than before. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Because I thought you were trying to have me killed! I’m obviously insane!”

“I’ve always known that about you,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes like a prat and looking unbearably fond, “and I always liked you well enough anyways. That’s not going to stop me.”

It’s strange, talking to Arthur again, but it’s even stranger talking to him outside of the apothecary. Even not talking at all had been less strange than this. Every moment of the last five minutes has been unbearably awkward, but in the apothecary…

There, they didn’t even have to speak. Merlin remembers the way his skin would prickle all over, a full body shiver, every time any part of him so much as accidentally brushed up against Arthur, be it his arm or his hand or even just a single finger. He remembers the way Arthur used to roam around for ages, chatting with Merlin as he did so, and the way Arthur used to stay, sometimes for far too long and for no discernable reason, even after Merlin had finished ringing him up. On one memorable occasion, Arthur had spent nearly three hours in the shop, helping Merlin move boxes from out back into the storage room, and from the storage room into the shop. He’d offered to help when he saw the difficulty Merlin was having, and had teased Merlin afterwards for being so skinny. He had been grinning good-naturedly as he did, leaning up against one rickety shelf with his arms crossed, sweating from the exertion and the summer heat. His shifting weight had caused one of the shelves to buckle, sending several items falling to the floor: a few bushels of peat, a small clay pot, and a leather bound journal, which had hit Arthur directly on the head. Merlin remembers the look on Arthur’s face, apologetic and annoyed at the same time, and the way that look had transformed into genuine mirth the moment Merlin (unable to stop himself) had started laughing helplessly. They had both been laughing, soon enough.

Arthur had helped Merlin replace everything on the shelf and offered to pay for the pot, which had shattered on impact with the ground. Merlin had refused to let him, but had found an extra fifty quid by the till only a few minutes after Arthur had finally left – more than twice what the pot had actually been worth.

Things are different now, but maybe they don’t have to be. (Or maybe, Merlin thinks, maybe they can keep being different. Maybe different doesn’t have to mean _worse_. Maybe it can mean better, too).

“Okay.” Merlin takes a deep breath, still feeling a bit dizzy, and is grateful for Arthur’s steady hands still holding him up, even if he’s simultaneously embarrassed by them. “The thing is, I’ve had a pretty long day. A long month, actually.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. “Right. Well, it wouldn’t have to be today, of course. Or at all, I suppose. That’s fine as well.” It looks like it pains him to say it, and he starts to step backwards, starts to let go of Merlin and move back towards the field.

Merlin raises his hand, though, and places it lightly on Arthur’s forearm before he can pull completely away. Arthur freezes instantly at the touch.

“Yeah,” Merlin begins again, “between the machinations of your sister, thinking I was going to murdered or at least get beat up for wearing your sweater –”

“I would never –”

“_and_,” Merlin carries on over Arthur’s protest, “finding out that all of these people I was starting to think might be friends only began talking to me because of you…” he pauses this time, and catches Arthur’s wince.

“I really am sorry about that,” Arthur says. “They’re horrendously meddlesome. Always have been.”

Merlin knows them all well enough now to know that Arthur is right, and he smiles at the truth of it. Arthur looks like he’s been punched in the gut at the sight.

“I think a real date might be a bit much for me. _But_,” he continues, and can almost pinpoint the instant Arthur’s expression goes from forlorn to hopeful, “I’ve heard some pretty curious things from your friends in the last couple of weeks. I think I might be really interested in hearing them from you.”

“Yeah?” The warmth in Arthur’s voice could set fires.

“Yeah,” agrees Merlin. “We can talk after the game?”

“We can talk after we _win_ the game.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “Now I have expectations.”

“I love a challenge,” Arthur says, and grins, suddenly, almost feral. For the first time, Merlin thinks he sees the resemblance between him and Morgana.

Arthur releases him, then, and takes one step back, and then another. He keeps his eyes on Merlin like it’s a struggle to pull away. Merlin knows the feeling. After a few moments, though, an alarm somewhere by the field rings and the crowd starts cheering for the game to start. With one last glance at Merlin, Arthur turns and runs back towards where the rest of the starting players are already grouped together on the rugby field.

A few of the players start to notice his approach, and those who do begin nudging the others until every member of Albion’s team is looking up at him. Waiting. When he finally he reaches them, he says something that Merlin can’t make out, but that causes an absolute uproar. The entire team goes abruptly wild, several of them jumping up and down, others laughing heartily, shouting and clapping each other on the back. Leon and Percival have each grabbed the other by the shoulders and are shaking one another frantically. Elyan whoops loudly behind them as Lancelot pats Arthur on the arm, grinning widely, and Gwaine, who seems to have lost control of his facilities entirely, is alone on the ground, laughing uproariously on the grass.

Through the chaos, Arthur looks back towards Merlin, still standing at the edge of the field, watching. For the first time in a long time, Merlin doesn’t feel scared, or anxious, or guilty. All other sensations are secondary to this: the elation he feels, not knowing what will happen, but thinking that it might be something great, and seeing that same sentiment reflected in Arthur’s own smile.

*

“So,” says Morgana when Merlin finally does make his way up to her and Gwen, “you figured it out.”

“Some of it. I should probably talk to Arthur, to figure out the rest. Also, I wouldn’t say I figured it out so much as several people spent weeks hitting me in the face with it.”

Morgana looks at him seriously. “You know,” she says, “we always used to wonder – me and Gwen and the rest of us, I mean – what he did, all those times he left and no one ever really knew where he was.”

Morgana must see the confusion on Merlin’s face, because she only pauses briefly before continuing. “I mean, we’re close, you know? We always have been. Not just Arthur and me – all of us. We tell each other everything.” She pauses. “Nearly everything,” she amends. “We have each other’s schedules; we know where we’re likely to be when we’re not with each other, which most of the time we are.” Merlin understands this; it’s the same for him with Will and Freya.

“Except,” Morgana carries on, “a few times a week, every week, almost since we started at Albion, Arthur would disappear. Usually only for about an hour, but sometimes he took longer. Sometimes, he took a lot longer.” She’s not even looking at Merlin, anymore; she’s gazing out at the field where the game has already begun, as if from here she might be able to finally divine all of the things that Arthur never told her, if only she looks hard enough.

“The point is that he always going _somewhere_, and he would never answer when we asked about where. That was the weird part – he wouldn’t tell _anyone_. It wouldn’t even have been a big deal at all, if he hadn’t been so intent on keeping it a secret. We all figured he just needed some time alone, but we never knew exactly what it was.

“We could never figure it out, until about a month ago. It was the first Sunday of term break – right after Valiant accosted you at school, you remember – and Arthur came home from one of his ‘walks’ in a foul state, looking like someone had just run over his dog right in front of him. It was just me and Gwen and Elyan there, but we called over a couple of the other guys and had a proper interrogation – ice cream, shite movies, ugly pajamas, the works. It took a bit, but he finally cracked and told us what had happened, and where he’d been going." Morgana sighs, finally looking back towards Merlin. “That’s how we found out about you.”

Merlin stares at her. “I didn’t know any of that,” he says. “I mean, I never thought he’d be _keen_ on advertising that he was there so frequently, but I didn’t know it was a secret.”

“I know you didn’t. Arthur doesn’t do things by halves, so he’ll probably tell you that part, too, but he can be an idiot about some things. I just want you to know that whatever you thought, Arthur wasn’t – he didn’t…” she trails off, looking frustrated.

Gwen chimes in, then, laying a hand on Morgana’s shoulder as she does so. “Arthur’s a good person,” she says gently, “even if he doesn’t always make the best choices. He didn’t tell us everything you said to him that day, but we got the gist of it. We just want you to know, no matter what you might think, that when Arthur was there with you, he wasn’t there for a laugh, or a joke, or anything like that, and he didn’t keep it a secret because he was embarrassed. You’ll have to confirm it with him, of course, but I really think that he just didn’t want to bother you with…” she gestures to herself and Morgana, and then to the players below them (who are running the ball back and forth across the field in a pattern entirely incomprehensible to Merlin), and then to the crowd, all of whom are cheering madly, and all of whom know Arthur’s name as if it were the king’s. “All of this,” she finishes.

None of them say anything, for a moment, watching as the players run down the field hurtling the ball back and forth. Arthur makes a pass to Lance, who catches it, twisting his body in midair to avoid colliding with one of the other team’s players. Cheers go up all around them as the first point of the game is scored.

“I’m sorry my brother’s a dumbass,” Morgana blurts suddenly, “but he never meant to hurt you. I know that might not make it any better, and I know you have to hear it from him, but – like I said. He’s a dumbass. I know that just as well as I know that he really, really cares about you.”

Merlin hesitates, but not because he doesn’t know what to say – more because he doesn’t know how to say it. “I will have to hear it all from him. You’re right about that part. But… I think I really like him, too. I think I have for a long time,” he admits, and that’s the hard part: the confession itself. The acknowledgement that he has feelings for Arthur Pendragon. He’s spent the better part of two years telling himself that it wasn’t true and, when that delusion wouldn’t hold up, that he was pathetic for it. Now, though, knowing what he knows – knowing that maybe it’s not entirely hopeless, after all – it isn’t nearly as hard to say as he thought it’d be.

“That’s great, Merlin,” Gwen says, warmly. “Of course,” she assures him quickly, waving her hands a bit, “it would have been fine if you didn’t! We’d still like you either way, really, I promise, it’s just –”

“Gwen,” he interrupts, smiling slightly, “it’s okay. I get it.”

She smiles back. “We’re all really, really happy for the two of you.”

Merlin can’t help the blush that spreads across his cheeks. “Nothing’s even happened yet, though.”

“Maybe not officially,” she shrugs delicately, “but I wouldn’t call this nothing.” She looks pointedly towards the field and Arthur (who had barely been able to look away from Merlin before he’d stepped onto the field, like he’d been starved of the sight), and then at Merlin’s red cheeks and the sweater he’s still wearing, _Pendragon_ emblazoned on the back in gold. “Even if you can’t quite put a name on it yet, I think it’s definitely _something_.”

On the field, the game has paused. The other team’s coach is shouting at the referee and pointing violently towards Gwaine, who is standing off to the side of the field and looking rather smug. Arthur looks up towards them, then, smiling when he catches Merlin’s gaze. Merlin raises his hand ever so slightly, and it’s almost like he’s pulled a lever, with how quickly Arthur moves to wave back.

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees quietly, almost to himself. Arthur turns away to retake his position on the field, but Merlin can still feel the pull. “Definitely something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes Gwen was so excited about Merlin being Confirmed Gay in the last chapter because it meant Arthur had a chance, yes Gwen told Arthur after Merlin (basically) gave her permission, yes Arthur yelled into a pillow for 10 minutes when he found out (It doesn't matter if he's gay! He doesn't like me anyways! Why are you all so terrible!) before reluctantly accepting the offered bowl of ice cream
> 
> Next chapter -- to all of those lovely people in the comments wondering about what happened at the apothecary, and anyone else who's just curious about it in general: :-)
> 
> This chapter marks the end of Act I.


	4. In a car with a boy (the verdict is in)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened that day in the shop, and what happens after the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter clocks in at over 7500 words lol so hopefully the length makes up for the long wait! I hope you enjoy:)

It happened like this:

Merlin has never been able to figure out why it is, exactly, that Arthur visits so often in the first place, or how he knows about Gaius’s apothecary at all. They sell medicinal herbs, mostly, some raw and some already prepared by Gaius (or, more rarely, by Merlin) into tinctures and lotions and the like. They’ve got other stock, as well: books on gardening and medicine and biology and aromatherapy, rocks and crystals of various sizes that their suppliers claim have a multitude of healing properties but that Merlin secretly thinks are best used as ornamental paperweights, and a stock of flora that can be used for anything from rituals to fragrance to decoration.

It’s a small shop that looks even smaller than it is because of the sheer amount of _stuff _crammed into it, cramped aisles made up of shelves reaching from floor to ceiling, and far too little floor space for most people to move around comfortably. It is, in short, not at all the sort of place that anyone would ever expect to find Arthur Pendragon. Arthur apparently never got this memo, as he’s one of their most frequent customers.

Merlin devotes most of the time he spends thinking about Arthur Pendragon to berating himself for doing so, but between those instances during which his main goal is to avoiding the subject of Arthur entirely, he can’t help but wonder what it is, exactly, that he’s missing. He must be missing _something_, really – nothing about Arthur’s continued presence in the shop has ever made any amount of sense. The fact that Arthur comes in at all is strange. That he actually talks to Merlin when he does, asks him questions, engages him in conversation, is even stranger. The way Arthur seems to forget about Merlin entirely the moment he walks out of the shop, though – that’s the strangest thing of all.

Here is something Merlin will never tell anyone – or, at least, here is something that he had resolved at one point to never tell anyone, not even Will or Freya, and which he genuinely does intend to keep to himself for the rest of forever: Arthur Pendragon really isn’t that bad. He’s rich and handsome and smart and talented, and everything he’s ever wanted has been handed to him on a platter made of something even more expensive than silver, probably, and all of that together is the perfect formula for the creation an absolute clotpole. Arthur, unbearably, seems to be the exception to this rule, the way he’s spent his life being the exception to every rule because of who he was born.

Arthur is an arse. Arthur is the son of one of the richest and most famously ornery men on the planet. Arthur is a privileged dickhead who laughs too much at things that can be hurtful, and who doesn’t understand why it’s harder for people like Merlin and Will and Freya just to _exist_ than it is for people like him, though he clearly understands that there is a difference, considering the way he avoids people like Merlin as if they’re carriers of the plague (or the way Merlin thought he did, at least, until he learned how close the Pendragons apparently are to Gwen and her brother). Arthur is catty and Arthur is obnoxious and Arthur is pretentious, and he has been groomed since birth to be that way just like all of the other catty, obnoxious, pretentious arseholes that Merlin has spent so much of his life around and that he absolutely cannot stand.

There is a difference between Arthur and the rest of them though, and it has always been this: Merlin likes Arthur, anyways. It’s true Arthur doesn’t talk to him at school – won’t even look at him, really – but he talks to him in the shop, and looks at him too, and Merlin knows it’s his imagination that Arthur can barely seem to stop looking, sometimes, knows that he’s dreaming up the way Arthur’s gaze will linger for too long on Merlin: on his face, into his eyes, at his hands and the bones of his wrists. Every time he comes in, which is quite often, Arthur talks and Merlin listens, and lets his mind trick him into hearing and seeing things that aren’t really there.

He knows he’s dreaming, because sometimes when he dreams of Arthur it’s so realistic that he wakes up thinking it was real. They’ll be in the shop, and Arthur’s hand will brush up against Merlin’s hand, or he’ll spend just a little too long following Merlin’s movement with his eyes, or Arthur will tell a joke that is frustratingly funny. _‘You’re hilarious,’ _Merlin will say as he finishes ringing Arthur up (a leather bound journal, today, similar to the one that had once fallen on Arthur’s head), and Arthur will reply that _‘seeing you laugh is a great motivation,’_ and whether it’s a dream or real life, Merlin will always be confused. _‘What?’_ he’ll ask, too flustered to say anything else. Arthur won’t look flustered at all. _‘I like seeing you laugh,’ _he’ll say, absolutely certain in a way that Merlin himself has never been. Merlin will slide his purchase across the counter and say something unbearably stupid, something that he won’t even remember, later, but Arthur will smile anyways, and then he’ll leave, and Merlin will spend the next few hours unable to breathe.

Then Arthur will come into the shop again and Merlin will forget all about it, and think instead of Arthur’s eyes and his smile and the small snorting sound he makes at the end of his particularly enthusiastic laughs, a sound Merlin has become so accustomed to that he waits for it now, expects it, considers it almost a kind of punctuation. He’ll be distracted by Arthur’s look and his movement and his words (and there are so many words, and Merlin loves all of them).

Arthur talks about the weather and he talks about books and he talks about his sister and his homework and the teachers that he and Merlin share. He talks about everything and nothing, all at once, because somehow he leaves Merlin knowing about the stunt Morgana pulled at their Aunt’s birthday party and the truly egregious amount of homework Ms. Tulanis has assigned and Arthur’s exact rugby practice schedule, but nothing at all about Arthur himself. The most surprising part of all of this, though, is that he lets Merlin talk back. He asks about Merlin’s mother back in Ealdor and about Gaius’s latest experiment (sure to explode at least twice, Merlin had told Arthur three days before, the last time he’d come in, and which Arthur had remembered well enough to inquire about). He asks about Merlin’s classes and the books he sees Merlin reading and what he did over the weekend, because _father intended to take Morgana and I fishing, which was an absolutely dreadful idea, really, I don’t know what came over him, and the two of us had about four different contingency plans lined up before we thought to check the weather and realized that it would be raining that day, thank God – but weren’t you going to go – herb collecting, wasn’t it, with Gaius on Saturday? Did you have to postpone it?_

And Merlin pretends that he’s just being polite when he smiles, that it’s not actually because he’s inordinately pleased that Arthur remembers something so trivial, something that had come up in passing conversation between them so briefly. _We were scouting arboretums in the area, _he’d reply, _to research potential new plants we could bring into our stock. They’re all inside, so we weren’t affected by the rain._

Then Arthur would smile, looking genuinely pleased that Merlin’s plans hadn’t fallen through, though they had nothing to do with Arthur. He would ask how it had gone, if they’d found anything useful, and Merlin would say yes, actually, if you’re interested, and Arthur would stay another half an hour at least, barely managing to remember to grab his bag on the way out.

_See you next time_, he would say, and Merlin would smile and say _yeah, next time_, and forget, for just a moment, that the next time he’d be seeing Arthur would be at school the very the next day, and that while Merlin might see Arthur, Arthur won’t see him at all.

The point is that Merlin _likes_ Arthur. He likes Arthur’s voice and his laugh and his smile and the way he remembers things that Merlin says like they’re important. He likes the way Arthur will see Merlin reading a book, and if he hasn’t read it himself (though he’s read a surprising number of them) he always, every time, makes a point to read it too, and talk to Merlin about it the next time he comes in. Merlin even likes his opinions on books: the way his favorite character from _East of Eden _is Cal (even if Merlin’s is Lee), the way he’ll talk for ten minutes straight about what a dishonorable charlatan Mr. Wickham is, and the veritable book report of feelings he once divulged to Merlin concerning _Brave New World_. He likes listening to Arthur’s opinions on everything, really, from music to movies to people to the proper layout of a zoo (and _that _had been an odd conversation, to say the least).

He likes the way Arthur always seems almost eager to listen to Merlin, in return.

He likes other things about Arthur, too: his smiles, alternately soft and sure and teasing, sarcastic, and fierce and sometimes downright snarky. They’re a constant presence in the apothecary (and, Merlin will think later, though he has not had reason to consider it yet, they’re one of the reasons Merlin had been able to fool himself into thinking he’d known Arthur).

All of this together has the effect that Merlin forgets, when Arthur comes into the shop, that he ever thought Arthur was a prat at all. He’s beautiful and poised and funny, and Merlin, when he allows himself to do so, likes him quite a bit – until he goes to school, and watches Arthur glide by him with his friends and admirers in tow, never sparing Merlin a glance, and Merlin remembers every time, what it means to be a Pendragon, and what it means to be someone like Merlin: everything.

Arthur comes in on the first Sunday of half-term break, and it’s the first time Merlin has seen him in nearly a week. Merlin is more irritated than usual, today, and he’s especially irritated with Arthur for something that isn’t even really Arthur’s fault, though Arthur is apparently intent on pretending like it is. He won’t stop apologizing, is the thing, and it’s getting on Merlin’s nerves.

When Arthur had walked in, it had been to Merlin with a bruise high on his cheekbone, large and dark and looking far worse than it really was, but not as bad as it had been thanks to the poultice Gaius had given Merlin to treat it. Arthur doesn’t smile at him, for once – he looks like the very last thing he’s likely to do is smile, actually.

He doesn’t greet Merlin the way he normally does, either. Instead, he walks straight over to the counter, leaning in to look at the bruise on Merlin’s cheek as if he might be able to heal it through sheer force of will.

“I heard what happened,” Arthur had said, his voice low. “I’m sorry.”

He hadn’t been at school on Friday when it had happened, but it’s no wonder the story made its way around to Arthur – everyone loves a good midday brawl.

“S’not a big deal,” Merlin had said nonchalantly, trying to hide his inexplicable annoyance at Arthur’s nonsensical apology. “It was just Valiant. He’s always a bit of a loose cannon, but most of the time I manage to get out unscathed. Guess it just wasn’t my lucky day.”

Arthur had looked unpredictably heartbroken. “I’m sorry,” he’d said again, looking pained enough that one might think he had been on the receiving end of Valiant’s blow, rather than Merlin. “I’m so sorry, Merlin.”

“It’s not like you threw the punch.”

Arthur looks lost. “I should have –” he starts to say, but Merlin cuts him off.

There is something cold lodged in Merlin’s chest, growing larger and darker the longer Arthur stands there. “You should have _what_? You weren’t even there. It wasn’t your business, anyways – it had nothing to do with you.” That, for some reason, makes Arthur’s face do something strange.

“I wasn’t there, but I should have – I should have _stopped_ him,” Arthur says earnestly. “I’m sorry.”

The cold thing inside of Merlin goes frigid and snaps, leaving behind only an icy fury. He feels like an idiot. He always feels like an idiot, around Arthur, because he has always known that however much Merlin likes Arthur, he will never be anything to him. He’ll never be any_one_. Arthur doesn’t talk to Merlin because he _likes_ him, or cares about him, no matter how thoroughly Merlin has fooled himself into thinking so. At best he’s a charity case and at worst he’s a joke, and for Arthur to try and pretend otherwise – for him to keep this joke going, when Merlin’s already been hurt? This is the way it has always been, but Merlin has never felt so blindly angered by it before. For the first time, Arthur’s company is not worth the pain of it.

He feels a curtain fall over his expression, can feel it like he felt that thing inside of him fracture in his chest, flicker and extinguish.

“That,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “is fucking rich.”

“I – what?” Arthur asks, looking genuinely confused.

“You think you would have made a difference? You think you would have _done_ something? I hate to break it to you, Arthur_, _but helping someone requires acknowledging the fact that they actually _exist_, which means that it would have been impossible for you. I get that you come in here and you make conversation with the poor boy who works at the shop because there’s no one else here to help you stave off your boredom, or because there’s no one here to see you lowering yourself to my level, or maybe just because it makes you feel better about yourself later, doing this kind of _charity _work.”

“Merlin –” Arthur says, looking almost frightened, and Merlin doesn’t think he’s ever seen Arthur look that way before. It’s enough of a shock that Merlin almost stops, listens to what he has to say, lets him finish – but Merlin doesn’t want him to finish. He doesn’t want to hear Arthur Pendragon talk, for once; he just wants him to go away, and stop playing with Merlin the way cruel children play with bugs, poking them with sticks on the sidewalk to see if they’ll dance, turning them over on their backs to watch them squirm. 

“I don’t actually know why you bothered talking to me here at all,” Merlin continues venomously, “if you were just going to ignore me everywhere else, but I don’t need your pity. People wouldn’t treat _pets_ the way you treat me, paying attention to me when I’m the only thing around, ignoring me when you have literally _anything _else to keep you busy. It’s not even that I’m the dirt beneath your feet, is it?” he asks, and feels a terrible, twisting sort of satisfaction at the wretched look on Arthur’s face, at the way he’s gone paler with each word Merlin has spoken. “You’d actually _notice _if you got dirt on your stupid, probably thousand-dollar shoes, but you’re Arthur _fucking _Pendragon, so I might as well be one of the bloody ants to you. I know that – I’ve _always _known that, but I have had _enough _of being stepped on this week. So this is me, refusing to be stepped on or kicked or played with by you any longer, and telling you get the _hell _out of my shop, you _absolute fucking clotpole_.”

There is a long, long silence. Merlin watches Arthur, and Arthur watches Merlin, and Merlin is still angry, almost shaking with rage, but there’s something else, too; something that’s not anger, exactly, but that’s just as terrible. It makes him feel like he’s being pulled apart at the seams, like as soon as he’s alone he’ll melt and seep into the cracks of the floor, or dissolve into the air and float up into the atmosphere. He may very well be an ant to Arthur Pendragon, but he doubts any ant has ever felt so small.

“Merlin…” Arthur starts again, hesitantly, but that’s not what Merlin wants. He doesn’t know what he wants, but it’s not for Arthur to keep talking, and it’s not for Arthur to stay.

“Get _out_, Arthur!” he shouts.

And Arthur does.

*

They win the game.

Arthur comes up to him afterwards, flushed both from playing and from the elation of victory. Merlin is flushed for different reasons entirely. He’d had come down from the stands with Morgana and Gwen to wait by the field when the game ended, so Morgana is there when Arthur approaches, and she steps between them before either of them can so much as speak. 

“I drove Merlin and myself here in your car,” Morgana says and Arthur, momentarily distracted, whips his head towards her.

“You _what_?” he asks, sounding strangled. “The –”

“Yes,” she says smugly, “the Ferrari.”

“Are you _joking _–” he starts, but is swiftly interrupted, once again, by Morgana.

“Don’t start with me, Arthur. Now you don’t have to get a ride home from one of the boys,” she says, looking between the two of them meaningfully. “And as Gwen has kindly offered to let me spend the night, I’ll be going straight home with her, so you don’t have to worry about me, either.”

Arthur (though he still looks rather indignant) closes his mouth, clenching his jaw tightly. He seems to realize what Morgana has done in the same instant that Merlin does: she’s given them as much time as they’d like to talk, alone and without having to worry about anyone’s schedule but their own.

“And anyways,” she says airily, “I thought the Ferrari would impress Merlin.” At this, she looks over at him. “You were, impressed, weren’t you? Just a bit?”

“Er – Well,” He stumbles awkwardly over his words, though he should be used to Morgana putting him on the spot by now. “It’s a very nice car.”

She smiles lasciviously, looking satisfied. “You see, Arthur? Merlin appreciates a good ride.”

Arthur goes fully red in the face and Merlin suddenly feels like he’s choking on air; even Gwen looks a bit embarrassed.

“_Morgana_—” Arthur hisses, and she laughs.

“Relax, I’m leaving. Also,” she calls over her shoulder, as Gwen steers them towards the parking lot, “As I won’t be home tonight, you’ll have plenty of time to show him a different kind of ride, if he’s open to it—”

“_Goodbye, Morgana_,” he shouts, glaring at her retreating form. She cackles all the way to Gwen’s car.

*

Merlin looks at Arthur for a long moment once Morgana is gone. Arthur doesn’t say a word – he spends the moments looking at Merlin, and even his gaze is hesitant, like he thinks if he looks at Merlin the wrong way or says the wrong thing, Merlin will send him away again.

Merlin is beginning to realize that he’s been a bit of an idiot.

He doesn’t begrudge Arthur the silence. Merlin had told Arthur to go, so now he has to be the one who tells him it’s alright to come back.

“We should talk,” Merlin says.

“Yes,” Arthur agrees. He looks at Merlin for just a second longer, his gaze lingering on the sweater Merlin’s wearing (Arthur’s sweater, he recalls, blushing at the reminder), and then leads them over to the Ferrari. Neither of them move to get inside. Instead, they lean up against the hood, still silent. Merlin looks at Arthur, propped up against the cherry red of the car, its colors muted in the low light of the evening. He’s still glowing with exhilaration, hair plastered to his head with drying sweat, clothes caked in drying mud. He looks beautiful.

“Did you enjoy the game?” Arthur asks finally. He seems to have been studying Merlin the way Merlin had been studying him; Merlin is only a little surprised that rather than feeling self-conscious at the thought, it warms something inside of him.

“I did,” Merlin says sincerely, smiling. “Congratulations on the win.” 

“I try and keep my promises.” Arthur hesitates. “How are you… feeling?”

“A bit chilly, actually.”

“Oh –” Arthur starts, seeming to realize for the first time that it’s February, and that the sun has set nearly completely. “I meant – I was talking about the… but I can take you home, if you…”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, and he can’t help but think about how different Arthur’s name feels in his mouth, now that it feels less like a pipe dream and more like a possibility. “I meant it, when I said we should talk. I’m not trying to get out of that. We could go to mine, but Gaius will be home…”

Merlin has never seen Arthur so unsure, not even that day at the Apothecary. He’s _nervous_, Merlin realizes. _He’s serious about this, and he’s nervous – maybe even as nervous as I am. _It doesn’t make Merlin _less _nervous, per say, but it does make him feel a bit better about his own state of mind. He remembers, suddenly, his conversation with Gwen, that night he’d accidently come out to her. It might not make your situation _better, _knowing that someone else is in the same boat, but it can sometimes make it easier. The memory gives Merlin the courage to put his hand on Arthur’s arm. Arthur reacts like Merlin’s touch is an electric shock, and Merlin’s sense of relief only grows.

“It’s a bit nippy out,” says Merlin, “and I ate before I came. My uncle’s home like I said, so…”

“I…” again, uncharacteristically, Arthur hesitates. His ears, curiously, have gone slightly pink. “Of course you’re welcome to come to mine. I just don’t want you to think, after what Morgana said, that _I _think… I mean, that I had any expectations of—”

“Oh!” Now it’s Merlin’s turn to blush. “I wasn’t thinking – obviously, I didn’t mean…”

This, at least, seems reassure Arthur. “As long as you’re alright with it,” he says.

“I am,” Merlin says. “I really, really am.”

*

The ride to Arthur’s is short and quiet and unexpectedly comfortable. Arthur pulls the car up the absurdly long drive way and leads Merlin through the absurdly large front doors and into Arthur’s absurdly large living room, where he gestures for Merlin to sit on the absurdly plush couch.

Arthur seems to have taken Merlin’s comment about the temperature to heart, because he immediately starts up a fire in the enormous hearth and emerges from a closet in the hallway with an armful of thick, soft looking blankets.

“Here,” Arthur says as he joins Merlin on the couch, and hands the blankets over to Merlin, who immediately realizes that his observation had been accurate: the blankets are so soft that Merlin couldn’t name the material if he tried.

“I’m a bit, er—I normally shower after games,” Arthur says, almost apologetically, looking down at himself and then back up at Merlin. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

Sometime in the last few hours, an affliction has over taken Merlin which makes it impossible for him not to smile when he looks at Arthur. He does so, now. “I think I’ll be alright out here.”

Arthur goes, and Merlin closes his eyes. He thinks of what Gaius had told him about meditation, on those rare occasions Merlin had been stressed enough that he was willing to try it.

_Make friends with your thoughts_, Gaius likes to say. Does it make sense? Not a lot. Is Merlin willing to try it? Apparently, yes.

Merlin is alerted to Arthur’s return by the sound of his footsteps descending the large, thickly carpeted spiral staircase Merlin had only caught a glimpse of on his way in. Arthur really had been quick about it, and Merlin is grateful for that – and then Arthur actually steps into the room, and Merlin is grateful for something else entirely.

Arthur is flushed from the heat of the shower and his hair is damp, still, but not dripping. He’s wearing a long-sleeved, light gray Henley and dark red sweatpants with _Albion Knights _printed up the side of one leg. It’s the most at ease and domestic Merlin’s ever seen Arthur, and sends something aching deep in his chest.

Arthur joins him on the couch, sitting with his legs crossed. He leans against the armrest on the opposite end of the couch from Merlin, though he doesn’t look very relaxed at all; his back is straight and stiff, like he’s some kind of prince about to meet with a foreign dignitary, or a suspected criminal about to meet their interrogator. His posture is a far cry from Merlin’s, who is almost lying against his own armrest with his legs tucked under him, curled up in Arthur’s blankets.

“So,” Merlin says.

“So,” repeats Arthur. “I hope Morgana and my friends didn’t scare you off.” He smiles like it’s a joke, but there’s a crumb of genuine worry in his voice that Merlin finds himself desperate to brush away. “I didn’t actually know what they were – I mean, that they were even…”

“They weren’t so bad,” Merlin says. “Not even Morgana,” he promises, when Arthur looks doubtful. “Honestly,” Merlin continues, “even if I didn’t realize it at the time, I think they were trying to helpful, more than anything. Overly intrusive wingmen, just like you said.” He smiles, almost mischievously. “Gwaine showed me a few _very _interesting pictures of you with his dogs.”

“_God_,” groans Arthur, and he puts his face in his hands. This is really a shame, because it means Merlin can’t look at it anymore, even now that he’s really allowed to.

“It’s a bit sweet, really,” says Merlin, “that they were trying so hard. They’re good friends.”

Arthur looks up at that. “They are,” he agrees, and he still looks embarrassed, but he looks like he means it, too. He looks beautiful, really, and there is something in his eyes as he looks at Merlin that is both hopeful and wary, and Merlin suddenly feels incredibly guilty.

“I _am _sorry,” Merlin blurts, suddenly, “about yelling at you that day. I don’t think I ever said that. But I am.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Arthur says, “You were right. Not about all of it, but some of it. I _was_a bit of a – what’s the word you used?”

“Clotpole.”

“Absolute nonsense,” Arthur says, smiling almost fondly, “but yes. I was precisely that.”

Merlin frowns a little. “You weren’t, though. You were just – I mean.” He cuts himself off, hesitating. “Gwen said something about you not wanting me to deal with… all of the things that I would have to deal with, if people knew that you and I… that is, if we…” He blushes.

Arthur frowns faintly. “That was a part of it,” he admits.

“What I mean to say,” says Merlin, “is that the day I told you off, you weren’t actually doing anything _wrong_. You were worried, and I knew that. I just didn’t understand why.”

“That wasn’t the only reason you were upset,” Arthur says, “and you were _right_ to be upset. I was upset too, but not with you. With myself. Which is why…” Arthur looks fixedly at Merlin in a way that makes Merlin think maybe he wasn’t imagining things as much as he thought he was, all those times he’d noticed Arthur’s gaze at the Apothecary. He leans forward now, just slightly, like he wants to make extra sure that Merlin know he means what he says next. “I’m sorry, too. For a lot of things, really, but I’m especially sorry that I ever made you feel like you didn’t matter.”

Merlin can tell that he’s utterly sincere; that his regret and his apology both are genuine. Even so, Arthur’s face is straight and his posture is rigid as he says it, like he’s preparing to be made fun of, or to take some sort of blow.

“Arthur,” says Merlin gently, “of course I forgive you.”

Arthur looks immensely relieved, like Merlin has lifted an enormous weight off of his shoulders, but it only lasts for a moment. “Morgana told me you were too nice for me,” he says with a frown. “I told her to piss off, but now I’m starting to think she might have been right.”

“So are you taking it back then?” Merlin asks, raising is eyebrows, “The date, I mean?”

“No!” Arthur rushes to say, “Obviously not. I’ve been waiting far too long for this to back out just because now I have hard evidence that you actually _are_ far too good for me.”

“Too _good _for you?” Merlin knows he should be delicate. He shouldn’t ruin this before he has the chance to actually _do _anything about it, but he apparently can’t help himself. “Morgana also told me that the only reason any of them even knew who I am was because of how upset you were after I _blew up _at you in the shop. Even before she said that, I thought I’d scared you off forever. If you still thought I was…if you still _liked _me after that, why would you stop coming in?”

Arthur frowns. “Well I thought I’d mucked it all up, didn’t I? I was – and you can’t let this go to your head, Merlin –” and God, Merlin really does love the way his name sounds rolling off of Arthur’s tongue “– but I was a tiny bit devastated afterwards.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “Just a tiny bit?”

“The _tiniest _bit. I think they’d all suspected for a while that I was infatuated with someone, but they’ve always been so meddlesome. Once they knew who it was, they were completely –”

“Infatuated?” Merlin can’t help but interrupt. “For – for a while?”

“Well,” Arthur says a bit sheepishly, “yes. Did Morgana not tell you that bit, too?”

“Well, she mentioned… but I don’t understand. _How_? We never really spoke except at the…”

“The apothecary, yes. Why did you think I was there so often?”

“Because…” Merlin flounders a bit, feeling as though he’s been asked to solve a puzzle he didn’t know until right this moment that he had the pieces to. “Because you were running errands?”

“What sort of things do you think I get up to, that I need to replenish my stock of exotic herbs and energy crystals weekly?”

Merlin gapes a bit – there are words in his mouth, at the tip of his tongue, but his brain hasn’t quite figured out what they are yet. “We don’t sell energy crystals,” is what he settled on.

Arthur, God bless him, ignores that. “I went because I wanted to see you.” He says it like it’s simple; like Merlin’s brain isn’t being torn to shreds just thinking about it.

Merlin’s silent for a minute, and Arthur lets him be, apparently recognizing that Merlin needs a moment to process.

“You’ve been coming into the shop for nearly two years, now,” is what he finally says.

“Ah,” says Arthur, looking self-conscious again, “I suppose I have been, yes.”

“And all that time…” It’s proof of how different they are, Merlin thinks, that Arthur, despite his obvious embarrassment, doesn’t hesitate, or stumble, or even look away.

“Yes,” he says, simply. “All that time.”

“We wouldn’t have had to deal with any of this awful business if I’d known.”

“If I had thought for even a moment there was a chance you actually liked me back, I’d have told you in a heartbeat.” There is genuine remorse in Arthur’s voice and in his eyes both, but it does very little to ease the tightness in Merlin’s chest. 

He slumps even further down onto the couch. “You could have said something,” he says. “Literally any time."

Arthur looks genuinely surprised. “Could I have, though?”

Merlin stares at him incredulously. “All that time we spent together in the shop, and you really thought there was no chance I could be just a _little _bit enamored?” he asks, and is immediately embarrassed at his own admission, though he knows Arthur has to know by now.

“That was – I assumed you were just being nice. You know, the way employees have to be nice to customers? Exhibiting common courtesy.”

Merlin, in that moment, wants to slap the both of them. For nearly two years they’d been flirting in his uncle’s shop, and it had been mutual, and neither of them had even made a move, each assuming that the other was acting in accordance with _social convention_. Morgana was right, he thinks. They _are _both idiots. Complete buffoons.

“Actually,” Arthur continues, ignorant to Merlin’s epiphany, “I was under the impression until very recently – until tonight, I mean – that you didn’t like me much at all. Considering… well. Considering.”

Merlin thinks of the shop, and all of the things he’d said to Arthur, that day. He knows without asking that Arthur is thinking the same thing.

“It’s not that I didn’t like you – no, really!” he rushes to say when he sees Arthur’s raised eyebrows. “I liked you _so_ much. I liked you _too_much, and I felt like an idiot for it, and I was mad at you for _letting _me like you, for making me think that you might actually like me, because that was impossible.” Merlin sighs, looking down at his hands, tracing the lines of his palms with his eyes. “That’s… part of why it hurt so much, I think. You were perfect. That meant that no matter how much I wanted you, I couldn’t ever have you, and I was stupid for letting myself think that maybe I could.”

“Except you weren’t,” says Arthur.

“Maybe I wasn’t,” Merlin concedes, “but I didn’t _know _that. All I knew was that you coming into the apothecary was my favorite time of the day, and that you spoke to me just fine there, but the second either of us stepped foot outside it was like I was a ghost. _Less _than a ghost, because at least people remember those. Half the time I thought of you it was all butterflies, and the other half I spent feeling _miserable_, and I know it’s not all your fault – you and I were both afraid, and neither of us understood – but it hurt. Everyday.”

Merlin’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, but he’s feels like he’s hardly breathing. He curls in on himself even further, hating himself for already ruining what was supposed to be a _good night_. Talking was supposed to make things better, not worse. He wraps his arms around his middle and tries to ignore the heat pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“Sorry,” he says wetly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” he trails off, chancing a glance up towards Arthur.

Arthur is looking seriously at Merlin, but he doesn’t say anything. Merlin looks away, focusing his gaze on the floor instead. He wonders how long it would take him to count each individual fibrous tufts that make up the carpet. He wonders why he always has to open his stupid, traitorous mouth and ruin every good thing he’s ever had a chance at having. He wonders how long it will be before Arthur realizes what a mistake he’s made, bringing Merlin here. He doesn’t get to wonder about much else, because Arthur finally breaks his own, long silence.

“Merlin,” he says almost gently. “Merlin,” he repeats when he receives no acknowledgement, “please look at me.”

Merlin wants to – really, he does. He always wants to look at Arthur. His head is heavy, though, and his eyes are wet and his body won’t listen to him.

Apparently realizing he won’t get anywhere like this, Arthur shifts from his cross legged position on the other side of the couch. He moves so that he’s right next to Merlin and then he keeps moving, bracing himself on his hands and knees above Merlin, who’s almost laying down completely now. He hovers there, not quite boxing Merlin in, but rendering him unable to avoid Arthur’s gaze. A drop of water falls from Arthur’s still damp hair onto Merlin’s cheek. It begins to slide down the length of Merlin’s face, almost like a tear, but Arthur is already reaching out with his thumb, brushing it away.

He looks at Merlin critically, at the position of his body and the redness of his eyes, and Merlin knows that he can see Merlin’s distress. Maybe he can see more than that, because Merlin is a lot of things, at the moment, but afraid is not one of them. Maybe it’s that knowledge that encourages Arthur to move again, pulling Merlin easily up by the shoulders and towards Arthur’s own body effortlessly. Merlin lets him, caught between embarrassment that Arthur is seeing him in such a state, irritation that his wallowing has been interrupted, and gratefulness that Arthur is willing to put up with the unpleasantness; to put up with Merlin, to be close to him, regardless.

Arthur adjusts them so that they’re both sitting up, leaning into the deep softness of the couch. He’s almost cradling Merlin, who positions himself until he’s veritably plastered against Arthur’s side, head under his chin.

Arthur wraps one of his arms around Merlin, as if to pull him even closer. “Is this okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. More than.”

“Good,” Arthur says. “I really wanted it to be okay.” He pauses for a long moment, and Merlin can hear his heartbeat in the silence. “You shouldn’t apologize to me,” Arthur finally continues. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who should be sorry – and I _am _sorry. For all of it.”

Merlin shifts, wrapping his own arm around Arthur and resting his forehead against Arthur’s collarbone. “You already apologized. Several times, actually.”

“I know,” says Arthur, “but I feel like I have to keep doing it. At least once for every time you felt sad thinking of me.”

“But what about all of the times I felt happy?” Merlin asks. “Doesn’t that cancel it out?”

Arthur huffs out a laugh, and Merlin can feel the way it blows through his hair. “Even so, there are things I’ve got to atone for. I’m sorry for not telling you. I’m sorry for not talking to you. I’m sorry for Morgana, and the rest of my ridiculous friends. I’m sorry I’ve been such a clotpole.”

Merlin had always thought that conversation with Arthur, while fun, had been empty, in a way. He’d thought that Arthur had talked to Merlin about everything but himself – a consequence of assuming that Arthur saw Merlin as a plaything, more than as a person. Now Merlin wonders if perhaps Arthur was telling Merlin about himself all along. The way he loves his sister. The way he loves his friends and rugby and sunny days. The way he loves funny looking plants and good books and bad jokes. The way he might love Merlin. Maybe every time Arthur ever spoke to Merlin, he was giving a little of himself away. Maybe everything Arthur ever did within the walls of the apothecary was another entry in a diary, another mural on a wall, and Merlin was so intent on not reading too far into it that he closed his eyes to the picture Arthur was trying to paint. He won’t keep his eyes closed any more.

Merlin sighs. “I meant what I said, you know?”

“I know.”

“No, I – it’s more than just that, though. The whole time, I always liked you so much, and it hurt; that part is true. But I didn’t think of it as you hurting me; it was more like I was hurting myself. I think maybe that’s why I was always looking for the worst in you. It’s so hard to hate someone who’s a genuinely good person, but letting myself think you were as terrible as I wanted you to be…it was my only option, really. Otherwise it hurt too much.

“So I know you said you didn’t want my apologies,” Merlin continues, “but I’m sorry too, for thinking the worst of you. And I forgive you. I forgive you,” he says again, and then again, and again, once for each of Arthur’s apologies. “Maybe you were a bit of a clotpole,” he admits, turning his face further into Arthur’s shoulder and delighting in the way Arthur’s arms tighten around him, “but even when I was thinking that, I never thought you were _awful_. Not the way Valiant and his lot are. I was only slightly afraid you.” He means for it to be a joke, but apparently Arthur doesn’t take it as such.

Instead, Arthur pulls back, just slightly, so he can look down at Merlin. Without being told to do so, Merlin looks up obligingly so that their eyes meet. Hurt isn’t exactly the word for the emotion on Arthur’s face; he doesn’t look offended, exactly – more like sad. “That’s not much better,” he says. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me at all.”

“Well I’m not, anymore,” Merlin says. “I promise. And anyways, it wasn’t personal – I’m a bit of a coward, ask anyone.”

“I don’t believe that,” Arthur says, still gentle, but suddenly fierce, as well. “I think you’re very brave.”

Merlin lets out a short laugh, but stops when he realizes Arthur is serious. “That’s – that’s nice of you to say, Arthur, but you don’t have to…”

“I mean it,” Arthur says stubbornly. “Even when you still thought you were afraid of me, you read me the riot act because I was acting like an idiot. You never ran away when any of my idiot friends accosted you, even when you wanted to. You came to the game tonight, even though I can tell you were nervous about it, and you came with _Morgana, _who deserves her own warning altogether.” 

Arthur’s voice turns contemplative. “My father always says that bravery isn’t a lack of fear; it’s knowing that you _are_ afraid, and facing the thing you’re afraid of, regardless_. _So even if you’ve spent your whole life scared, it just means that everything you’ve ever done, you’ve done bravely. No matter what you were afraid of, you never let fear control what you did. I think you’re one of the bravest people I know. Even if you don’t believe me, I do.”

Merlin’s throat and chest are both tight. He pulls back slowly from where he’d been leaning against Arthur’s chest. Arthur lets him, not moving and not saying a word as Merlin sits up completely, still nearly in Arthur’s lap, and turns his body to face him.

Merlin looks at Arthur for a long moment, caught in the blue of his eyes (still bright, somehow, even in the low light), and then down at Arthur’s hand where it’s resting on the couch between them, no longer draped across Merlin’s ribcage. He puts his own hand over top of it, tracing his fingers from Arthur’s wrist down to his knuckles. Arthur shifts so that their fingers are laced together.

Merlin looks back up at him. “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.” He says it so lowly that it may as well be a whisper, but he knows Arthur hears him anyways. He leans in, unable to help himself. He’d pulled away so that he could look at Arthur, but now he wants nothing more than to be as close to him as possible. Except…except he wants to _keep _looking at Arthur, too, wants to drink in his features the way he’s never permitted himself to do before. It’s only now that he’s allowed that he’s beginning to realize just how starved for it he was.

Arthur smiles, just faintly; just enough for it to show in his eyes. “You deserve nice things,” he murmurs, and he’s leaning in towards Merlin, too, and it would be so _easy_… and Arthur had said he was brave. This is, perhaps, the scariest thing Merlin has ever done, but he _wants_ it. He wants it badly enough that it doesn’t matter in that moment how afraid Merlin is, or even what it is that he’s afraid of. All that matters is Arthur, and Arthur’s hand in his, and Arthur’s mouth, so close to his own. _Maybe_, he thinks, as he closes the distance between them, as he presses his lips against Arthur’s and quietly rejoices when Arthur presses back, _just maybe, Arthur was right. _

Maybe Merlin really is brave, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of this chapter wasn't super fast paced, but I hope you liked it! Hopefully some of the excitement in the next chapter will make up for that ;) see you then!


	5. with the pain that you drain from love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturday with Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this chapter is short at about 3.6k words but there IS an explanation: this chapter and the next chapter (about 4.5k words) were originally one chapter, and I honestly almost kept them together because I feel like the tone is a little unbalanced now (this is super fluffy chapter and the next one is uhh... less so :-)). BUT I felt like a chapter over 8k was just a little overwhelming, so I split it into two parts. The good news is that this means the next chapter should be out in a week (probably less!), so it will be a short wait! 
> 
> ALSO: I want to say that there are some things that are low-key implied at the start of this chapter,and I just want to make it clear that Merlin and Arthur DID NOT have sex this fic, on screen or off!! they’re nervous gay inexperienced teenagers who JUST figured out intimacy between them is even a possibility. Anything hinted at in the text is referring to, like, at most a few long hours of making out and exploratory touching (mostly) ABOVE the waist because again I CANNOT emphasize enough how nervous and giddy and inexperienced they both are. they’re just… SO baby. It’s just important to me that ya’ll know that this is not the kind of fic and these are not the kind of characters (as I've written them here!!) that are going to go straight from a confession to having sex (not to say that there’s anything necessarily wrong with that in fic or in real life). 
> 
> Now that I’ve settled thattttt on with the story!!

Merlin doesn’t mean to spend Saturday with Arthur, but somehow it happens anyways.

They had fallen asleep on the couch sometime in the early hours of the morning, having spent most of the night talking, among other things (and the memory of it – Arthur’s mouth on his, his lips and his shoulders and the way his hands had felt on Merlin, too much and not enough all at once – makes Merlin blush even now).

Merlin wakes to the sound of a door slamming and Morgana’s voice calling Arthur’s name.

Her shout of “I _know _you’re here, Arthur!” is the first thing Merlin is coherent enough to make sense of.

“Your car’s out front,” she calls, “so you can’t hide from me! I want details! What happened with –” and then the voice cuts off, and Merlin looks towards the tall, ornate archway that is the entrance to the living room to see Morgana standing just beneath it, her mouth hanging wide open and a grin slowly growing on her face.

He’d been draped across Arthur’s chest, he would remember later, a blanket covering the both of them, which was likely the reason for her simultaneously giddy and leering look. Now, though, all he is able to comprehend is how sleepy he is, how rustled and, honestly, a slightly crusty he feels.

“Oh my _God_,” Morgana finally says, and Merlin doesn’t even have the time to figure out whether he should be embarrassed or not before Arthur is groaning groggily underneath him. Merlin sits up immediately, giving Arthur room to follow suit, which Arthur does – sort of. He props himself up on one of his elbows, looking unbearably attractive despite (or perhaps because of) his dishevelment. 

Arthur looks around blearily. “What?” he asks, so garbled that it’s barely comprehensible, despite the simplicity of the word. He is, apparently, an absolute mess in the morning, and Merlin doesn’t think he’s every appreciated any sight more.

“_YOU_–” Morgana starts, already shouting, but Arthur cuts her off.

“Whatever you’re on about now,” he groans, “I didn’t –” and then he stops, turning his head towards Merlin. “Oh,” he says, like he’s forgotten Merlin was there – and then, suddenly, he looks very awake, and also very happy. “Merlin – you’re still here! I didn’t –”

“Sorry,” Merlin is already saying, looking between Arthur and Morgana as Morgana cackles in the background. “I can –”

Arthur cuts off both Merlin’s offer and Morgana’s laugh, whipping his head towards her and snapping, “Morgana, would you please get _out_?” Morgana disappears down the hall, her delighted laughter following after her. Arthur turns back towards Merlin. “I didn’t mean I want you to go,” he says. “I mean, you can if you’d like, obviously, but I’m glad you’re here. I’m sure you’re busy, but… we could have breakfast, first?”

Merlin is not busy, and Arthur looks more earnest than Merlin thinks should be possible this early in the morning. Maybe Merlin _should_ go – he’s got homework to do, and he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome – but he’s found that he’s quite incapable of saying no to Arthur, when he looks at Merlin the way he is now.

“Yeah,” Merlin smiles, and watches the way Arthur’s eyes light up in return. “Breakfast sounds nice.” 

*

“We have a few spare toothbrushes upstairs,” Arthur tells him after breakfast (Honey-Nut Cheerios, toaster waffles, and an assortment of fruit delivered from one of the local grocers twice a week, according to Arthur.)

“And I didn’t think of it before,” he continues, “but if you’d like a change of clothes – I just mean,” he falters, “that it must have been uncomfortable sleeping in jeans.”

“A bit,” Merlin admits, “but it wasn’t so bad. I’ve fallen asleep in much stranger places.”

“I know,” says Arthur. “I found you napping under a shelf of sundials once, remember? I was actually worried for a minute, but you were just sleeping on the job.”

“It was finals season,” Merlin groans, “I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in _ages_.”

“You did last night, though?” Arthur asks, but he’s not teasing anymore; he’s serious.

“I did,” Merlin says, smiling.

“Good.” Arthur smiles back. “If you’re uncomfortable,” he starts again, refocusing the conversation, “we have about five bathrooms in this house, if you’d like to shower. I could give you some of my clothes to wear, if you’d like? If you don’t want to change back into your things from last night. I mean, you can, obviously,” says Arthur, who Merlin has a feeling is not used to hosting guests in this context. “I’m sure they’re fine, but we could wash them too, if you’d prefer.”

“You know how to do laundry?” Merlin asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Ah…” Arthur starts, looking uncomfortable. Merlin gapes – that had been a _joke_.

“Don’t tell me you make Morgana do it,” he says, a little afraid for Arthur’s safety.

“_God_, no,” says Arthur. “I’m not insane. She’d rip my head off if I so much as suggested it.”

“Then…”

“We have a maid that does it,” Arthur admits.

“Right,” says Merlin dryly. “A maid. That’s much better. So you _don’t_ actually know how to do laundry.”

“Not technically,” Arthur says, almost sheepish, “but we have a machine. I’m sure I can figure it out.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “It’ll be a learning experience for you, I suppose. Come on, where’s the laundry room? I’ll show you how it works.”

So Arthur leads Merlin to the laundry room, and Merlin walks Arthur through how to use it. He’s almost endeared by how seriously Arthur takes the task, nodding as Merlin talks and looking as if he’d like to start taking notes.

“Brilliant,” says Arthur matter-of-factly once the machine has begun the cycle. He looks almost awed, as if Merlin had just demonstrated a particularly good magic trick.

“It’s just _laundry_.”

“Well, I think you’re brilliant.” Arthur says. “I always thought that.”

“I suppose I rather am, aren’t I?” Merlin teases, and Arthur rolls his eyes, snickering as he does so.

“The shower is through here,” Arthur says, leading him into a spacious bathroom just down hall. “Towels are on the rack, and I’ll leave some clothes on the counter for you.”

He leaves, then, and Merlin spends the shower alternating between thinking about how good the Vanilla-Brown Sugar soaps smell, trying very hard _not_to think about the way Arthur had looked after he’d showered last night, and trying even harder not to think about Arthur joining him. He mostly succeeds.

When Merlin emerges, there are, as promised, fresh clothes on the bathroom counter, and he feels warm from head to toe, knowing that they belong to Arthur.

He wanders down the hallway once he’s mostly dry and finished changing, and spots Arthur through the open doorway of a room Merlin assumes in his bedroom. He’s sitting on the king-sized bed with a book, but looks up and smiles when he sees Merlin standing in the door.

“Your clothes should have about 30 more minutes in the wash, and then… I don’t know how long it takes to dry them, actually.” He frowns faintly, as if he might be able to guess the right time if only he thinks hard enough.

Merlin laughs. “I’ll show you how to do that too,” he says, walking over towards the bed. “What are you reading?”

“Oh,” says Arthur, holding the book up to show him. “_Pride and Prejudice _again, actually.”

“Seems a bit fitting,” Merlin says.

Arthur’s eyes and voice are both warm when he says, “It does doesn’t it?” He goes quiet for a moment. “The boys love to give me shite for it because I’ve always got it out, but it’s a good book, you know? I… when I was really young, my father was away often. I had tutors and household staff and such to keep me company, so I was never really alone, but…I was always still a bit lonely. Books were nice, though. They kept me entertained, at least.” He looks down at the book again. “It was my mother’s favorite, actually. That’s what my father told me, at least.”

Merlin puts a hand on his back. “She had good taste.”

Arthur smiles and sets the book aside so that Merlin can join him on the bed. They lie side by side, staring up at the intricately woven canopy between them and the ceiling.

“Did you visit your mum over break?” Arthur asks. “I never got to ask.”

Merlin shakes his head. “No,” he says, surprised even though he shouldn’t be. “I stayed.”

He’d forgotten that Arthur knew to ask that. In the same way that Merlin knows things about Arthur that he doesn’t know how to explain, Arthur knows things about him: like that Merlin started living with Gaius instead of his mum when he started going to Albion, to be closer to the school.

It’s silent for a few moments.

“Thank you for the clothes,” Merlin finally says. “And for the toothbrush, and breakfast. And for letting me use your shower,” he says, closing his eyes and recalling how wonderful that shower had been. “Especially for the shower. Your water pressure is _phenomenal._”

Arthur laughs. “It’s the least I could do. I’m…happy to have you here. I’m always happy to be around you, really.” Merlin can hear the vulnerability in Arthur’s voice, and he takes comfort in it. It means that Arthur feels what Merlin is feeling, lying on a bed with a boy he likes, throwing words and looks and touches into the void between them to see what will stick, poking at the fragile edges of this thing they’ve created to see where it’s safe to fall.

“You really spent all that time in the apothecary – you really came by so often just so you could see me?”

“I did. I like you. Then and now and all the time, even when you think I’m planning to kill you – which, _honestly _Merlin –”

“I’m well aware of how unhinged it sounds, thank you. Let’s move on. Actually, let’s keep talking about how much you like me.”

Merlin can see, out of the corner of his eye, the moment Arthur shifts his gaze away from the canopy and towards Merlin. He feels it, a moment later, the way the mattress gives as Arthur moves to lay on his side, facing Merlin completely. Merlin mimics the action, turning towards Arthur until they’re lying face to face, curled in towards each other on the bed like twin parentheses.

“It helped that I got to talk with you one on one,” Arthur says. “It was the best part of my week sometimes. Even if you hadn’t ever wanted to speak to me, though, I think it would have been worth the trip, just to see you like that.”

“Like what?”

“Just… the way you were, there. You were different at the apothecary than you were at school. Louder. Happier. Sharper. More open. More yourself.”

Merlin can’t help them way his brow wrinkles, at that. “How could you know what I was like at school?” he asks, hoping his doesn’t sound too accusatory.

“I was...looking,” Arthur confesses. “I shouldn’t have been, but I was. You were… well,” he admits, “you were the only person I ever spent much time looking at, really.”

Merlin can’t help himself – he reaches forward and intertwines his fingers with Arthur’s, so that their hands rest perfectly between them on the bed. Arthur’s hand is strong and gentle in his, and it’s strange and familiar all at once, how new this is, and how it somehow doesn’t feel that way at all.

“The only person?” Merlin asks, trying to come off as teasing but not quite managing it. “You mean – you never….”

“Never,” Arthur agrees.

“But…_how_? You’re –” he uses his free hand to gesture at Arthur, unable to articulate what, exactly, he thinks Arthur is, but Arthur seems to understand.

Arthur laughs. “Yes,” he says, grinning, “I really _am, _aren’t I?”

Merlin groans, but isn’t flexible enough to elbow Arthur from this position.

“I mean it, though,” Arthur says, “you were the only one I ever really looked at. I looked for so long and that was all I could do, and I never had time outside of all of that to think seriously about looking at anyone else.”

“That’s impossible,” Merlin says. “If you’d been looking I’d have noticed.”

“Would you have?” Arthur asks doubtfully.

“I _would _have,” Merlin insists. “I was looking, too.”

“Oh,” says Arthur, like this is some kind of revelation. “Looking, like...”

“Like the same way you were, if I’m reading this right. Am I? Reading this right?”

“Probably,” says Arthur. “You always were smarter than most people. That’s one of the things I liked about you. For clarification’s sake, though...” he draws their joined hands closer to himself and presses his lips tenderly against Merlin’s comparatively delicate knuckles. The touch makes every hair on Merlin’s body stand on end.

“I like you,” Arthur says. “Romantically, but in other ways too.”

“Other ways?” Merlin asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Of course,” Arthur says innocently. “Many other ways. Would you like me to list them?”

“I wouldn’t mind it.”

“Well…I suppose that I like you in the way friends like each other.”

“Ah. So we’re destined to be just friends, then?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Let me _finish_, Merlin – I’m obviously not done yet.”

He sits up, and Merlin sits up with him. “I like you everywhere,” he says, already pulling Merlin into his lap, “but I think I like you best right _here_, I think. I like you the way voracious readers like their favorite authors, and alcoholics their favorite wine. I like you the way children like sweets and dentists like cavities. I like you like a musician loves a song and a chef likes a recipe and a bird likes the sky and a fish likes the water. I like you the way green likes a tree and blue likes the sky and white likes a stain. I like you the way the shore likes the sea and the rose likes the thorn and like Mercia School for Boys likes losing at rugby.”

“That makes it sound a bit like you don’t like me at all.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be aces at English?” Arthur asks. “It was elegant and you know it.”

“It was very nice,” Merlin teases, “if a bit vague.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I’ll spell it out for you then. I mean that I can’t help but like you. I suppose…” he trails off, his voice turning softer. “I suppose I mean that I liked you very much even when I thought I shouldn’t, and that I like you now, and that I’m quite certain I’ll keep liking you forever, and possibly even longer than that. I like you so intensely that it sometimes makes me feel like a fool, if I’m being honest. I don’t know how not to like you. I don’t know that it would even be possible. I’m a bit helpless in the face of it, actually.”

“Are you, really?”

“I think so, yes. But I don’t mind.”

Merlin does not say that this sounds a bit like love. He is sure that Arthur knows. He doesn’t say that he feels the same, because any words he might have to say it with pale in comparisons to Arthur’s. Apparently he doesn’t say anything for too long, because Arthur starts to look worried.

“Are you alright?” he asks, furrowing his brow and leaning in to look more closely at Merlin. Merlin wants to rub away that furrow, wants to press his thumb against it and smooth it away forever. He wants to preemptively stop Arthur from frowning for the rest of his life.

“I’m great.” Merlin breathes. “That was great.”

“Yeah?”

“I was just teasing you before. It was beautiful. I didn’t know you could compose off the top of your head like that. I mean, I knew quite a bit about you already – Morgana and Gwaine in particular told me a few _very _interesting stories – the shrine you keep for me in your closet was particularly intriguing –”

Arthur immediately sits up, dislodging Merlin in the process. His face has gone completely pink, and it’s absolutely glorious. “They said _what –_”

“I’m kidding!” Merlin knows he should apologize, but he’s giggling too much to do so properly.

Arthur huffs, slumping back down onto the bed. “You really are very rude,” he says over Merlin’s unrepentant snickering. “Perhaps I should break this off, after all.”

“Of course you’re free to do so,” Merlin shrugs, his laughter tapering off, “but I think everyone would be quite cross about all of their hard work having gone to waste.” He lays back down on the bed with Arthur, but this time he doesn’t bother leaving any space between them. He rests his head right on Arthur’s shoulder, and drapes his arm across Arthur’s middle.

“I suppose we’re stuck together then,” Arthur sighs. “Pity.” Despite his words, Arthur pulls Merlin even closer, and uses the hand not splayed across Merlin’s ribs to card through Merlin’s hair.

“So we’re both pricks,” Merlin groans playfully, tightening his hold on Arthur. “I still like you rather a lot, unfortunately.”

“I understand your frustration,” Arthur says knowingly. “I’m in a very similar boat, myself.”

“Oh, you don’t have to play coy,” Merlin teases. “I gathered you liked me quite a bit after that _gorgeous _monologue you just recited. I didn’t know you were such a _poet_.”

“I am not a poet,” Arthur protests. “Just because I can string two words together –”

“I can’t _wait _to tell everyone I’m dating the next William Blake –”

“Are we?” Arthur asks suddenly.

“Are we what?”

“Dating?”

“Oh.” Merlin blushes – so caught up in the moment, he hadn’t realized what he’d been saying. “I mean, if you’d rather – I know you asked me out, but that doesn’t mean – I mean, two people can be dating – that is, going on dates – without actually being...”

“Merlin.”

Merlin falls silent. Arthur sits up again, bringing Merlin with him, and cups Merlin’s jaw in his hand. “Merlin,” Arthur says again, “will you be my boyfriend?”

Merlin is smiling so widely that talking is a bit of a challenge, but he manages. “Yes,” he says, leaning into Arthur’s touch, “yes, I’d love to be, and you’ll — I mean, won’t you...”

“I’ll be your boyfriend, too,” Arthur says fondly.

“We’ll be each other’s boyfriends,” Merlin says, almost giddy, leveraging himself up on his elbows so that he can bring his other hand up so that they’re both gently cradling Arthur’s face

“Yes,” says Arthur, content to be held, “that is typically how it works.”

“Shove it, you clotpole.” Merlin rolls his eyes. When Arthur leans in for a kiss just a moment later, he closes them altogether.

*

“So,” says Arthur much later, when they’ve run out of breath and energy and Merlin can feel the way his kiss-bruised lips tingle pleasantly with every breath that leaves his body. “Gwen mentioned something about you having had a boyfriend before me –”

“Oh my God –”

“Now, I’m not the jealous type –”

“Liar,” Merlin mutters, and smiles when he feels the way Arthur’s body shakes, just a bit, with silent laughter.

“I only heard a bit…” Arthur continues, only to be once again cut off by Merlin.

“She didn’t _tell _you –”

“Not all of it, unfortunately, no,” Arthur admits, sounding very put out by the fact, “but I think I’d very much like for you to fill in the blanks. From what little she did let slip, I’m expecting something hysterical.”

Merlin groans and presses his face into Arthur’s chest. From that position, he can feel each of Arthur’s breaths, as well as the way he’s laughing at Merlin.

“You’re a sadist,” he moans. “Taking pleasure in the pain of others. I can’t believe I ever thought you could be _nice_.”

“I doubt anyone else would believe it either, really, though _you_ shouldn’t be surprised – apparently your taste in men _is _rather abysmal.”

“I’m not speaking to Gwen. I’m on a Gwen strike. You’ll have to tell her I’m not speaking to her, because I can’t do it.”

“If you really do want me to I will, but just think of how sad it would make her.”

Merlin groans, and Arthur chuckles and pulls him closer.

“Tell me about the project the two of you are working on,” he suggests.

“Haven’t you already heard about it from Gwen? Or Morgana, honestly, she’s nearly as involved as we are, at this point.”

“I have, a bit,” Arthur admits, “but I’d like to hear it from you. Everything sounds better when you say it.”

He doesn’t want to bore Arthur, but how can Merlin say no to that?

Merlin is aware that he has, at this point, completely given up on leaving in any kind of timely manner, but he feels like it’s justified. He’s making up for all of the lost time he could have (should have) been spending with Arthur.

So they spend Saturday together, but not on purpose, and Merlin goes home for dinner with Arthur’s sweater on his back, Arthur’s number is his phone, and the promise of a ride to school on Monday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They didn't see Morgana again because she was only there for a little while before she left again to give them some privacy ( she is a good! sister!), but also because the house is honestly just stupid huge for a place that's pretty much only populated by two teenagers. it's an old money kind of house and Pendragons attending Albion have lived there for generations. 
> 
> I hope you liked it and I honestly can’t WAIT for next time:) See you then!


	6. leave your legacy in gold (on the plaques that line the hall)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A (violent) revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: It should be about a week before the next update!  
also me: *unable to wait literally 2 days*
> 
> Sorry I gave y’all cavities last chapter, but hopefully this chapter will make up for it :-) see end note for potential trigger warnings (though the warnings may spoil some of the chapter’s content).

On Sunday, Merlin, not feeling like doing any more homework and not quite knowing what else to do, calls Will.

Actually, he’d called Freya first, forgetting that she’d likely be at quilting club with her dad. Predictably, she hadn’t picked up, and desperate to talk about it with _someone_, he’d called Will instead.

“Merls!” Will greets him on the second ring, “Just the lad I wanted to hear from! How was the game?”

That’s a loaded question, really, but the whole reason Merlin had called was so that he could pull the trigger – so Merlin tells him. He tells Will everything that happened that night, and doesn’t stop talking for nearly thirty minutes. Will doesn’t interrupt him once.

“So?” Merlin asks when he’s finally done, insistent despite his nervousness.

“So, I’m glad you’re happy, Merls. It’s gonna suck for you, having to tell that entire story over again to Frey, but –”

“Is that it? You don’t have anything else to say about it?”

“What do you _want _me to say? You’ve been pining after this guy for years – and don’t say you weren’t, Freya and I always knew.”

This gives Merlin pause.

“You – you what? What do you _mean_ you knew?”

“I mean we _knew_, Merlin. You always talked about him coming in –”

“I never told you we _spoke_–”

Will sighs heavily on the other end of the line, cutting Merlin off. “You didn’t have to. You always had this look in your eye, like – I don’t even know, mate. I’ve never seen anything like it. Not from you, at least. Course, I didn’t know he’d been chatting you up the whole time. I thought it was just a dumb crush on the fittest bloke in school, and I couldn’t blame you for that, even if he was also one of the biggest prats. Freya and I figured you were over it when you lost it on him at the shop, but…” Merlin can’t actually see Will, but he’d bet money he’s shrugging. “I meant what I said, and Freya will think the same. I’m happy for you, mate.”

Merlin hesitates. “Even though…even though it’s Arthur Pendragon?”

Will pauses, but only for a moment. “Do you remember,” he starts, uncharacteristically hesitant, “on Friday, when Freya and I were trying to convince you to go to the game, and I gave that frankly _incredible _speech about how you deserve nice things?”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “How could I forget?”

“I said that if it took people this long to see how great you are, it’s not because you’re not great, it’s because they were all too stupid to see it.” He exhales loudly. “I still hate the bourgeoisie fucks that populate most of the school, and the Pendragon name still makes me want to commit arson, but from what you told me…it sounds like maybe Arthur knew how great you were all along.

“He was a massive prick about the whole thing,” Will insists, “but still…he knew. So I guess what I’m saying is that maybe he’s not as big of an idiot as I thought. At the very least, he’s not as big of an idiot as the rest of them. Maybe… maybe he’s an alright guy.” It sounds like it pains Will to say it, but Merlin is grateful all the same.

“You mean that?”

“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

“Okay. I – I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

“Sure thing, Jelly-Bean.”

“And Will?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Thanks. I mean it. Thank you.”

Will laughs. “Anytime, Merls. I mean that, too.”

*

On Monday, true to his word, Arthur picks Merlin up at his house (in a sleek black BMW, this time – apparently the Ferrari is only for special occasions) and drives him to school.

In the parking lot, Merlin takes Arthur’s hand before either of them can move to get out of the car.

“Alright?” Arthur asks, squeezing once.

“Alright,” Merlin confirms, with much more confidence than he feels.

Arthur smiles. He leans over the center console and presses a kiss to Merlin’s cheek. It’s the first time he’s ever done it, but he does it easily. Maybe it is easy, Merlin thinks. Maybe he’s imagined doing it before. Maybe he’s spent so much time thinking about it that he doesn’t even have to think twice. Maybe that’s all it takes.

“Ready?” Arthur asks.

“Ready.”

They walk in through the front door holding hands, and Merlin can’t help but think of how different it is, being with Arthur. Of course he’d spent time with Gwen and Morgana, but that had been mostly in private. Even when he’d been with Gwaine, people had been so focused on his sheer _Gwaine_-ness that they had hardly ever looked twice (or even once, really) at Merlin.

Now, it seems like every eye in the school is on him. He feels himself tense, and knows that Arthur feels it too, from the way he moves closer, so that they’re pressed together from shoulder to elbow to wrist, down to where their hands are intertwined just between them.

They’d gotten to school early to avoid the rush of students, but the hallways seem almost more crowded than usual. Merlin tries his best to breathe, without much luck.

“Are you alright?” Arthur murmurs under his breath.

“Yeah,” Merlin breathes, trying for a smile. “Yeah. I’m fine, I’m just…not used to people paying this much attention to me.” He laughs a bit nervously as he and Arthur make their way towards Merlin’s locker.

As they walk, Merlin knows he’s not imagining it – people are staring. No one actually says anything, though, and he thinks that as long as that stays true, he can live with this. He can deal with the looks, at least. He can handle it.

They’re nearly at his locker when everything goes straight to hell, and Merlin thinks, suddenly, absurdly, _of __course_.

Valiant is standing there, directly in front of Merlin’s locker like he’s been waiting for them. Merlin knows when Arthur sees him because he immediately comes to a halt, gripping Merlin’s hand tighter, using it almost as leverage to pull them both to a stop.

For just a moment, Merlin wonders how likely it is that there’s any possibility at all that they can just turn around and walk away. He’ll gladly take the dock in today’s grade for not having his textbook with him in class if it means not having to deal with this – but by the time he’s had the thought, it’s already too late: Valiant has seen them.

He stands up straighter, looming over them as much as it’s possible to loom from twenty feet away, and as soon as he knows that he’s got both of their attention, he sneers. “I heard you left the game together, but I didn’t know if I should actually believe it. I don’t know if I’m more surprised or disgusted that either of you faggots got the balls to actually say something to each other.”

Merlin is suddenly angry – but that’s not quite true, is it? Merlin has _been_ angry; there is nothing sudden about it. There is something different about this, though. Maybe it’s Arthur’s strong presence at his side, or the memory of Arthur the night of the rugby game, murmuring _I think you’re one of the bravest people I know. _Maybe it has nothing to do with Arthur at all; maybe it’s something that’s always been a part of Merlin, that same thing that had risen up inside of him and pointed itself at Arthur that day at the apothecary. No matter what it is, Merlin is the same as he’s ever been, really. Only one thing is new: Merlin doesn’t feel like flinching back from Valiant, anymore.

“Yes,” Merlin retorts, squeezing Arthur’s hand even tighter, “well, it was a long time coming. Maybe if you ever grow a pair yourself, you’ll stop being afraid of two boys holding hands and learn to mind your own bloody business.”

Valiant had not been expecting this from Merlin, if the look on his face is anything to go by. “I always knew you were a poof,” he snaps, “but I never thought you were so fucking _stupid_.”

Arthur is the one who speaks, this time. “I don’t know what’s funnier,” he says, “the idea of you thinking someone _else_ is stupid, or the idea of you thinking at all.”

A small crowd has assembled around them by this point, and a couple people snicker. Arthur looks satisfied, but Valiant only looks angrier than ever.

“Fuck you, Pendragon,” he seethes. “You think you’re so much _better _than everyone else. You think you’re so great – _everyone _thinks you’re so great, and it doesn’t make any fucking _sense_! I have _everything _you do, but they’d all rather worship some _fag_–”

“I don’t know what you think has been easy about _any _of this,” Arthur bites out. “You’ve spent the last few years doing your best to make sure absolutely _nothing _was easy for me.” He takes one step forward, dropping Merlin’s hand as he does so, and Valiant takes one step back.

“Let it go, Valiant,” Arthur says, bleeding with authority the way Merlin imagines a king would. “You can’t keep doing this.”

Half the school must be gathered around them at this point, Merlin thinks. He can’t see anything through the sea of people, taking up the entire hallway around them on both sides, some of them with their phones out, obviously recording the encounter.

Valiant doesn’t spare their audience a glance; he just sneers, any apprehension he might have had slipping away. “I can do whatever the hell I _want_. You think this means anything? You think the fact that you and your skinny little gritter of a boy-toy decided to bump uglies, it means you don’t have to worry about me?” He demands, snarling more than he is talking. “I’ll tear you to fucking _pieces_.”

In the moment it takes Merlin to wonder why Valiant would think Arthur had ever worried about him at all, Valiant rushes at Arthur, taking hold of his shirt and throwing him up against the lockers before anyone else can move, knocking Merlin aside as he does so.

“What the _hell_!?” shouts Arthur, gripping Valiant’s wrists where his hands are fisted in the fabric over Arthur’s chest, pinning him to the wall.

Merlin scrambles to his feet, shouting “Get _off _of him –” even as he pulls fruitlessly at Valiant’s shoulders, trying to wrench him back.

“Get the fuck _out _of here!” snarls Valiant. He thrusts an elbow out behind him, and it catches Merlin harshly in the mouth, once again knocking him backwards. Before Merlin has even finished falling, he can feel the place where his teeth cut into his lower lip, and the blood already welling in his mouth.

He hits the floor hard on his back. He can barely breathe for a moment, the wind completely knocked out of him, and makes frenzied eye contact with Arthur over Valiant’s shoulder. Valiant notices.

“Look at _me_!” he bellows at Arthur, pulling him forward only to slam him up against the wall of lockers again.

Arthur shouts something back, still looking Merlin, but Merlin doesn’t hear it over the screaming of the other students in the hall, gathered even more tightly around them now, shouting nonsense at them and at each other. Merlin opens his mouth to say something back, something that Arthur won’t hear anyways, but before he can, Arthur’s face changes. He must have seen the blood, Merlin realizes, wet on his lips and staining the white of his teeth.

He’s still on the floor, but he can see the way Arthur’s glare intensifies, the way Arthur whips his head around to look at Valiant, finally, the way his mouth moves in a snarl and the way his grip tightens around Valiant’s arms, keeping him there as Arthur firmly brings his knee up, hard, right between the V of Valiant’s legs, and then uses his hold to push Valiant away when the hit lands. Valiant doubles over, falling onto his knees, sputtering for breath and spitting mad. The gathered crowd screams even louder, either in support for Arthur or sympathy for Valiant, Merlin isn’t sure.

Arthur moves quickly as Valiant recovers, nearly sprinting the few feet over to Merlin and leaning down in front of him.

“Are you okay?” he asks, panicked. “Did you hit your head – how many fingers am I holding up?” He’s close enough that Merlin can hear him even over the frenzied crowd surrounding them, which Merlin is silently grateful for – he’s doesn’t think he could read lips in this state. 

“You’re not holding up any,” Merlin says, and it’s true – Arthur is clutching Merlin’s shoulders in both of his hands, gently enough that Merlin can tell he’s worried about hurting Merlin, but firmly enough that it’s obvious he’s frightened that Merlin might fall over and _actually _hit his head if he doesn’t have anybody holding him up. As he speaks, a new rush of viscous, blood-mixed-with-saliva comes pouring out of Merlin’s mouth, dripping down his chin and onto his shirt. The hit must have been harder than he thought, he thinks, and then stops thinking for a moment when he sees Arthur’s horrified face.

Arthur starts to say something. Just as he does, though, Merlin catches a glimpse of movement over his shoulder. Valiant has finally stood up, and is coming up rapidly behind Arthur. Merlin opens his mouth to warn him, but Arthur must see something in his eyes, because he’s already turning around, placing his body even more firmly in front of Merlin’s, like a wall, like a shield, ready to take a hit or throw one – but he never gets the chance.

Even over the wailing of the crowd, which has, if anything, gotten louder, Merlin can a hear a voice roaring, “WHAT THE MOTHER _FUCK _IS GOING ON HERE –” and then Gwaine is bursting through the throng, followed by Elyan and Lancelot and Percival and Leon and several other people who Merlin has seen before, but whose names he hasn’t had the chance to learn. They are all clearly burning with rage, and not a single one of them gives any of the gathered witnesses the opportunity to answer Gwaine’s question before they are, each and every one of them, rushing to tackle Valiant to the ground. Merlin and Arthur and the rest of the students are left staring as half the rugby team, all at once, dogpiles on top of Valiant, pinning him down.

The hallway quiets, everyone apparently too shocked to speak, until the only sounds to be heard are the those emanating from the mountain of students at the center of it all: Valiant at the bottom, squirming and shouting curses, and Gwaine and the rest of the team, wrestling to try and keep him down, grunting from effort and occasionally letting out intermittent curses of their own.

“Jesus,” rumbles Elyan from where he’s trying to keep one of Valiant’s legs pinned and avoid being kicked in the face, “just stay _down_, mate –”

Then, breaking the relative silence, is another scream, high and feminine: Professor Tulanis, shrieking, “What in _God’s __name _is going _on _here?!”

It’s as if a dam has burst.

Valiant’s struggles begin anew, and the rugby team buckles down, shouting instructions at each other that none of them can hear over the cacophony that is the crowd of students once again shouting, all of them at once, trying to explain the situation, many of them waving their phones in the air as if to offer up the videos they’ve taken as evidence.

Amidst it all, Arthur moves. He doesn’t say anything, just wraps Merlin’s arm around his own shoulders and curls his own arm around Merlin’s waist, supporting him despite the fact that Merlin is perfectly fine, _honestly_.

He pulls them through the crowd, though not with his usual ease. Merlin’s never been in a mosh pit, but he imagines it would be a bit like this. No one is focused on the two of them anymore; they’re all either trying to run away to avoid the punishment of playing bystander, edge closer to get a view of where the rugby team is still grappling, somehow, with Valiant, or converge on Professor Tulanis with their own versions of the story.

Merlin can hear the professor behind them, though her voice is too muffled by the crowd for him to make out her words. She’s alternating between shouting at the rugby team, shouting at the students who have crowded around her, and shouting into the walkie-talkie all teachers carry with them, likely requesting backup.

When the two of them finally breach the crowd, the hallway is almost blessedly clear before them. Merlin breathes a sigh of relief, but Arthur keeps walking, hauling him farther down the hall.

Just as they reach the end of the corridor, the first bell rings. Merlin has a feeling quite a few classes will be delayed, this morning.

The cacophony grows quieter with every step they take, and by the time they’ve turned their second corner, the sound is significantly diminished.

“Where are we going?” Merlin asks, finally able to hear himself speak.

Arthur looks at him, still concerned, but something like determined, too. “Nurse’s office,” he answers. “You need to get checked out.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin insists immediately. Arthur doesn’t answer, just looks down at Merlin’s shirt, covered in dry blood, except for the splotches of fresh blood that had just now fallen from Merlin’s mouth as he spoke. Merlin wipes his mouth with his sleeve, smearing red there, too, but at least sopping up a bit of the mess.

“Point taken,” he relents. “But what about…” he glances behind them. He can still hear the ruckus they left behind, though they must be at half a building away by now, but it is growing fainter.

“The boys will handle it until security gets there,” Arthur says easily, looking both satisfied and fond. “And if they can’t, Morgana will step in. I’m sure she’s there already, if she’s not on her way.”

It is only then that the enormity of what just happened strikes him. “God,” he says, only a little hysterically. “Bloody buggering _fuck_.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything, but he does stop walking. He lets Merlin’s arm fall from around his shoulders so that he can pull Merlin in closer to his chest.

“M’gettin’ blood on your shirt,” Merlin mumbles; still, he can’t help but lean into it.

“That’s fine,” Arthur says quietly. “I’ve got more.” 

Merlin nods slowly against Arthur’s shoulder. In the distance, he can hear the yelling amp up again, and wonders what Valiant has done now.

“Let me take you to the nurse?” Arthur asks.

“Yeah,” says Merlin. “Okay.”

Arthur wraps his arm around Merlin’s waist again, though Merlin thinks that this time it’s less about the physical support, and more that Arthur just wants to be near him. Merlin doesn’t begrudge him this. He understands; he feels the same. He holds onto Arthur right back, and they walk away like that, together, as the school descends further into chaos behind them.

*

“Good _Lord_,” Nurse Margolyes gasps, lurching to her feet, as they burst through the door of the nurse’s office. “Mister Emrys? What on Earth happened to you?” She hurries over to them before either of them can answer, taking up a similar position to Arthur on Merlin’s other side and guiding them over to the far wall, where they deposit Merlin into a chair.

“I’m fine, really,” he tries to tell her, but she cuts him off just as efficiently as Arthur had.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she says severely. “Have you hit your head?”

“No.”

“He did –” Arthur starts, and Merlin groans.

“I was hit _in_ the head,” Merlin relents, “by someone else’s elbow, and it wasn’t even my head, really.”

“Just your face,” says Nurse Margolyes, looking unimpressed.

“Right. Just that.”

“How are your teeth?”

“All still there.”

“None loose?”

“Don’t think so.” Merlin shrugs, then winces. “I fell pretty hard, but not on my head. I really think it’s just a badly split lip.”

She narrows her eyes. “Any pain other than in your mouth? Wooziness?”

“Er – a bit,” he admits, “but it’s not terrible. I really do feel alright.”

“You seemed woozy in the hall,” Arthur argues.

“I was mostly surprised, I think, but I’m really okay. You’re the one who got slammed up against the lockers.”

Nurse Margolyes turns her stern gaze on Arthur, who raises his hands innocently – as innocently as one can look when they’ve got literal blood on their hands, at least, although Merlin is willing to take responsibility for that particular detail.

“Didn’t even feel it,” he says, “really. Merlin’s the one I’m worried about.” 

She gives him a hard stare, but relents after a few moments. “Well, wash your hands, at least.” She sighs, turning back to Merlin. "I’ll get you a wet rag to clean your face with and a new shirt. It shouldn’t need stitches and I doubt you have a concussion, but you’d do well to –”

Before she can finish, though, the door flies open once again. Merlin and Arthur both flinch, and Nurse Margolyes whirls around to confront the culprit – but it’s just Professor Tulanis.

“There you two are,” she barks, looking far more frazzled than Merlin has ever seen her. “You’re needed in the principal’s office. Your parents are on their way.”

“What?” Arthur asks, sounding alarmed. “Are you sure? There’s really no need –”

“Yes, Mister Pendragon,” she interrupts, “I’m very sure. We spoke to your father directly, as well as to Mister Emrys’s guardian, and the parents of Mr. Cavalier and the other boys involved in the altercation.”

“_Cavalier_?” Nurse Margolyes interjects suddenly. “Valiant Cavalier?” She turns to Merlin. “_Again_?”

“I didn’t start it,” he protests weakly.

Nurse Marolyes huffs out a sharp breath, pursing her lips. “No,” she says, “I’m sure you didn’t.”

She turns towards Professor Tulanis. “I’ll send them to the office when this one,” she nods her head at Merlin, “is alright to go.”

“They both need to come with me,” Professor Tulanis insists. “As instigators, their testimonies are needed.”

“_Instigators_?” Merlin demands.

“I’m not leaving Merlin,” Arthur says fiercely.

“Mister Pendragon –”

“I’m not leaving him,” Arthur repeats hotly. “Everyone needs to give their side of the story, right? The rest of them can go first. I’ll go when Merlin’s ready.”

“I haven’t ruled out a concussion yet,” Nurse Margolyes says suddenly, although she had, only moments prior to Professor Tulanis’s arrival, told them otherwise. “I need to run more tests.”

Professor Tulanis looks at Merlin, still covered chin to chest in blood and spit, and sighs. “Very well,” she says tightly, glancing between him and Arthur. “Someone will be sent to retrieve you when your presence is required in the headmaster’s office, and you _will _go with them – am I clear?”

“Yes, Professor,” says Arthur, and Merlin nods in agreement.

He cleans himself up as best he can, avoiding the tender area around his lip, and changes into the shirt Nurse Margolyes had procured for him, as promised. She hands him 400 mg of ibuprofen and some water to drink it with, as well as an ice pack, and points him towards a cot in the back room.

“Rest until they come and get you,” she says, standing in the doorway as he lays down with a bit of help from Arthur (he’d hit the floor hard enough that his back, unfortunately, is nearly as tender as his face). “I have a feeling I’ll be needed down at the office to see to the other boys involved,” she continues, “so I’ll be leaving you here alone. Please do try not to get into any more trouble.” She leaves, then, stopping only to dim the lights on her way out.

It’s silent, for a while. Arthur sits quietly beside the cot, one hand resting on Merlin’s thigh over his uniform trousers, and the other gripping Merlin’s own hand, callused grip simultaneously firm and gentle. It might just be the medicine (it’s probably the medicine), but Merlin likes to think that the way the pain seems to trickle away has at least a little to do with Arthur.

Arthur is the one who breaks the silence. “I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice twists in way that reminds Merlin of something breaking. Merlin forces his eyes open, and turns his head to look at Arthur fully.

“What for?” he asks, almost incredulously. “Valiant’s crazy – you couldn’t have known he would lose it on you in the hall while we were minding our own business. I mean, it doesn’t even make sense, really,” Merlin continues, thinking back to the incident. “He’s always targeted me more than anyone else, ask Will or Freya – but this time he went directly for you. He’s never done that before, has he? You had no reason to think he would, even if you were hanging around his favorite target.”

This does not seem to make Arthur feel better. If anything, he shrinks in on himself – his hold on Merlin’s hand tightens, but so does everything else about him.

“I have something I need to tell you,” Arthur says lowly, not looking at Merlin.

Merlin rolls over onto his side so that he can hold Arthur’s one hand between both of his. The movement makes Arthur look up, and Merlin waits until he’s looking directly into Merlin’s eyes before speaking. “Okay,” he says, keeping his voice soft. “You can tell me anything.”

Arthur takes a deep breath, but he doesn’t break Merlin’s gaze. “When we talked after the game the other night,” he starts, “I told you I was at your shop so often because I wanted to see you – and that was true. But it wasn’t the only truth. I started going to the apothecary because it was the only place I _could _see you.

“It’s why – well, it’s the reason I was so apologetic, after that whole mess with Valiant. The first time he hit you, I mean, when he cornered you right before half term break. Although – that wasn’t the first time he’d bothered you, was it?” Arthur asks ruefully. “It’s because – I mean, in the shop when I was trying to apologize, you kept saying it wasn’t my fault, but…it _was_, a bit. More than a bit. I didn’t tell you then, but I should have. I should have told you before that, really, but I was a coward. I especially should have told you this weekend, but everything was going so well, and I didn’t think either of us would have anything to worry about, anymore.”

Merlin stares. He had thought he was done being baffled by Arthur, but he is once again struck by the feeling that he has discovered pieces for a puzzle he didn’t know he was meant to be solving. He has so many questions, and no idea where to start. He wonders if maybe he really _does _have a head injury, or if Arthur is genuinely just not making any sense.

“Tell me _what_?” he finally asks, though it sounds, even to his ears, more like a demand. “Why would us being together mean we didn’t have to worry? How could any of this _possibly _have been your fault?”

Arthur winces, appearing almost to crumble: a monument on the verge of collapse. “Valiant…” he stops himself, shaking his head. He looks down at the ground and then back at Merlin, holding himself like he’s steeling for a blow when he begins again. “Valiant knew. About me, and about how I felt for you. He knew all along.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for homophobic language and bullying/semi-graphic fight scene/blood (but NO serious injuries)
> 
> Nurse Margolyes is named after Miriam Margolyes, who played Nurse in Romeo + Juliet (1996) with Leo DiCaprio and Claire Danes.
> 
> started so soft, ended so rough…have I made you feel the full range of human emotion yet?


	7. cause arthur, you’re a star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a confession, a testimony, and a surprise, in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for mentions of violence and the use of homophobic slurs by Valiant in a flashback scene.

“What do you _mean _he knew?” Merlin demands incredulously.

“I mean what I said,” Arthur snapped. “He figured it out.”

“Did you tell him?”

“No!”

“Then _how_?”

“Because he knows me,” Arthur replies miserably, halfway between devastated and disgusted. “Or he likes to think he does. And – do you remember on Saturday? At mine, when we were talking about – that is, when I told you that I’d been looking. At you. For…well, for a while.”

“I do,” says Merlin, truthfully. He doubts he’ll ever forget anything that happened that morning, or the night before.

“You might not have seen it,” Arthur says, “but Valiant did. I tried to fix things – I’ve _been _trying – but he’s spent the last two years doing everything he can to lord it over me.”

“_Why_?” asks Merlin, painfully aware of his own barely restrained hysteria. “Why would he do that? What reason could he possibly have had?”

Arthur takes a breath that seems to rattle all the way through his body, with how thoroughly it shakes him. “It was my fault.”

Merlin stares. “Arthur,” he says, “not only is that _not _an answer, it’s also _insane_.”

Arthur shakes his head. “You don’t underst—”

“No,” Merlin interrupts, “I mean it. No matter what happened, it wasn’t your fault. You’re not responsible for _anything _he did.”

“Wait and listen,” Arthur suggests, sounding resigned, “and then you’ll see.”

Merlin can only nod.

“There was a bunch of shite that happened first year,” Arthur begins, “with Valiant and the rugby team.”

Merlin nods. “Gwen told me about it.”

Arthur sighs. “Of course she did. Apparently she and the rest of my unbearable friends have spent the last month feeding you my whole life’s story. Did any of them tell you about Valiant, though? That we were friends, as kids?”

“No,” Merlin says, “I have _definitely _never heard anything about you being friends with _Valiant_.”

Arthur looks pained at the thought. “Our fathers sometimes worked closely, so we were thrust together fairly often. He was… I mean, he was still a cock, as a kid, but so was I. He wasn’t like he is now. After our first year at Albion, though, and everything that happened with the rugby team…” Arthur sighs tightly. “When we were kids we did nearly everything together. We didn’t see each other every day, or anything like that, but…we spent time together, when we could.

“We grew out of it eventually. Or I did, at least, once I had Morgana and Gwen and Elyan, and realized that there are better ways to be than the way I was. It was a lesson he never learned, I think – but I was lucky. He didn’t have anyone to show him how to be… not like that. All he had was me. I hurt him when I pulled away. I didn’t mean to, but I did, and he didn’t have anyone else to go to like I had – so he kept his focus on me.

“When you grow up the way we did, competition is how you prove that you’re worth something. It’s how you prove that you’re worth _anything_. Getting into Albion was a given for both of us, but getting onto Albion’s rugby team was kind of the greatest competition he could think of – and he lost. He always hated losing, but he especially hated losing to me, I think. He never really forgave me, after that, and because we had been friends, of a sort…”

Arthur stares down at his hands, spread open over his lap, palms facing up. “Did you know that Morgana’s only my half-sister? I didn’t even know she existed until I was ten, when she came to live with us, and I didn’t meet Gwen and Elyan until about a year after that. I didn’t get to spend a lot of time with other kids. I think maybe that’s why the one that I did see fairly often – he was the only friend I had, and for so long, it seemed like…” he trails off, looking lost.

Merlin remembers, only vaguely, what Valiant had been shouting in the hall: accusing Arthur of thinking himself above everyone else, sneering that Arthur gets everything he wants not because he’s earned it, but because of who he was born. Merlin understands. Merlin has thought all of that and more.

Shakespeare had written, ‘_what’s in a name_?’ and Merlin has always known that the answer is privilege, and reputation, and power. Apparently, so does Valiant. Merlin’s gut churns not only at the realization that there is something he and Valiant agree on, but that they had been so alike in their bitterness that they had both been unable to see past it.

The tangibility of the differences between Merlin and Arthur had been such that Merlin could always blame Arthur’s advantages on the circumstances of his birth. Valiant, meanwhile, had been unable to understand why he could never compare to Arthur, despite having all of the same privileges. On paper, he should have been Arthur’s equal – and yet in reality, he could never hope to compare. They had, the both of them, been so blinded by the Pendragon name that they had forgotten to take into account the value of the person it belongs to.

Merlin knows he should be disgusted at how similar he and Valiant had been, in this – but any revulsion he feels is overshadowed almost entirely by pity. Merlin doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to forgive Valiant, but for the first time, he feels like he might be close to understanding him.

Merlin reaches over, sliding one of his hands over Arthur’s so that their palms are touching. It seems almost like a reflex, the way Arthur immediately curls his own fingers through Merlin’s. He looks up, almost in surprise, when Merlin copies the gesture. 

“Anyways,” Arthur continues, breaking the silence, “the short version is that he was the first person who knew that I was interested in men. So after he decided we weren’t friends anymore…”

Merlin squeezes Arthur’s hand a bit tighter. “He was going to use it against you?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “He was going to _try_. When he threatened me with it, I immediately went and told my father so he wouldn’t be too surprised, and then I told everyone else.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“It was, for a bit,” Arthur agrees, “until he eventually realized that liking boys wasn’t my only secret. He figured out that I… well, that I was fairly far gone over one very specific boy. I don’t know what he thought would happen – the school banned him from playing rugby after the incident first year, and, I mean – we’re _teenagers_. No matter who my father is, I’m not exactly powerful. I can’t even _vote_,” he says irritably. 

Merlin can’t help but huff out a laugh. He notices, after a moment, that Arthur isn’t talking anymore, and that he isn’t laughing either. He’s just looking at Merlin. He’s not smiling exactly, but his frown isn’t nearly as deep as it had been only moments before.

“But he tried to use it anyways?” Merlin prompts.

“Right,” says Arthur. “Said he knew about…who it was. He said he’d tell other people, and insinuated he was willing to do quite a bit to teach me a lesson, including going after things he thought I’d care about. Things, or people.”

Merlin blinks. “He said all of this at _fifteen_?”

“Now that I think about it,” says Arthur, “It really was a bit insane. Probably should have told somebody about it a sooner.”

“Probably should have,” Merlin agrees. “So what _did _you do?”

“Just about the stupidest thing I could have, I think,” Arthur says regretfully. “I laughed it off, told him he was wrong and an idiot, and thought that it would make him give it up. He didn’t, though, and I thought it would be better if Valiant never saw us together. That if I stopped… well, everything, it might convince him he’d been wrong where my words couldn’t. I stopped talking to… to _him _where Valiant could see.”

“To the bloke you fancied?” Merlin asks softly.

Arthur nods. “I stopped looking at him, and I tried to stop thinking about him. I pretended he wasn’t real because I thought maybe Valiant would, too. But I still wanted him. I still…” Arthur breathes in deeply. “I still wanted _you_. So I started visiting your apothecary. I knew it would be the only chance I’d get to see you, and maybe even talk to you, without Valiant there to ruin things.

“I know I put you through a bit of hell,” Arthur says. “You thought a lot of things about me, and about what _I _thought of _you_, and most of it was my fault. But nothing I ever did was because I was ashamed. Just afraid. And stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Merlin says. “And just about everyone in the world was convinced you had no clue who I was, so your plan worked a bit, I suppose.”

Merlin can see, even through the dim light, the way Arthur’s jaw clenches at that. “Not well enough,” he says. His eyes trace Merlin’s face, lingering on a spot to the left, just below his eye, where the bruise left by Valiant all those weeks ago had been darkest.

It’s silent for a few minutes, but it doesn’t feel like any time at all it passing. Merlin takes stock of the things he _can _feel. The blanket over his shoulders. The warmth in his stomach, and the tightness in his chest. Arthur’s hand, in his.

“So when you said… on Saturday, when you said you were looking, but that you shouldn’t have been…”

“I let myself look, and told myself that as long as I was careful about it, it was okay. I never imagined you’d actually like me back.” Arthur says, giving a bitter half-laugh. “I thought it wouldn’t matter to you, if we didn’t… if I was…”

He purses his lips, looking down again. Merlin squeezes his hand.

“I was right,” Merlin finally says.

Arthur looks at him, bemused. “What?”

“I told you it wasn’t your fault, and you told me to wait and listen before I decided for sure. Now I’ve listened, and I was right. Arthur,” he says, running his thumb over Arthur’s knuckles, “whatever Valiant’s problem is with you, and with me – that’s not something you can control any more than I could have. Maybe you could have done things differently, but that doesn’t mean that anything he’s done is on you.”

“If I had just _told _someone – ”

“There have been signs,” Merlin interrupts, “that anyone could have seen. That people _have _seen. He’s broken rules and he’s hurt people. We both know that, and we’re not the only ones. He’s here because he wants to be, and because his parents want him to be, and because Albion’s Board of Directors want his money and his legacy enough to let it happen. He’s here for a hundred different stupid reasons, and not a single one of them is your fault.”

“Maybe him being here isn’t my fault,” says Arthur, looking down at the floor, “but the things he’s done, to you especially…”

Merlin tugs on Arthur’s hand to reclaim his attention. “Do you remember what Morgana said Friday night? Before the rugby game?”

Arthur looks back towards Merlin and grimaces. “I remember her saying quite a few things.”

“I’m talking about when she called you full of yourself.”

Arthur frowns. “Yes,” he says slowly, like he’s both confused and offended but trying not to show it, “she’s full of wisdom like that.”

“Don’t be cross, Arthur. I just mean that when you said that she was put on Earth to torment you, and her response was that it was awfully big-headed of you to think that she was made to do anything just for you – it’s the same with Valiant. I mean, the context is wildly different, of course – ”

“I should say so,” says Arthur drily, but Merlin ignores him.

“—but you’re trying to hold yourself accountable for things you didn’t do. Even if you were his motivation, that’s not something you could have helped.

“I don’t think Morgana was entirely right. I don’t think the problem is that you’re big headed. I think you’re very noble. A knight in shining armor,” Merlin says, soft and only half joking. “And I think that means that sometimes you try to shoulder the responsibility for every bad thing that happens around you, even when it’s not yours to carry. You can’t blame yourself for the choices other people make. I spent so long thinking there was something wrong with me, and _that _was why Valiant had it out for me, and why I suddenly turned invisible to you the moment either of us stepped outside the apothecary. It might have been about me, but it wasn’t my fault – and this isn’t yours.

“It seems to me like Valiant was jealous, and hurt, and maybe a little lonely. I think he wanted to prove to himself and to you that he was better off without you, instead of the other way around – but whatever he was feeling, and whatever role you played in it, that’s no excuse for the things he’s done.

“Everything that happens, it’s just because of the choices that people make. Some of those choices might be bad, and some of them might hurt, but you’ll go crazy if you start to believe they’re your fault. We can try and change things all we want, but in the end, the only choices we can really control are our own.”

Arthur is silent for a long, long moment. He looks at Merlin likes he’s watching something break and be put back together again, over and over right in front of his eyes. “I was right when I said you were smarter than pretty much everyone else. I knew it when I said it, but I feel like you deserve the reminder.”

Merlin smiles softly, and it only makes his mouth hurt a little.

“And,” Arthur continues, “just for the record: I choose you.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “Over who, might I ask?”

“Over everyone, obviously, but I just meant…in general. You said everything that happens is about the choices we make, so I choose you – and I’ll keep choosing you. Every time. That is,” he amends, “if you’ll have me, of course.”

Merlin tugs Arthur’s hand, still intertwined with his own, closer to the edge of the cot, near enough that he barely has to turn his head at all to press a kiss to Arthur’s knuckles.

“I choose you, too,” he says. “Always.” Arthur may have been adamant, before, about Merlin’s bravery, and be may have been right – but even if he hadn’t been, Merlin is certain his response would be the same. For this, at least, no bravery is needed; it’s the easiest choice he’s ever made.

*

They wait for over an hour.

The clock reads nearly 10:30 AM before Madam Aithusa – the deputy headmistress – comes to collect them. 

“Most of the parents arrived quite a while ago,” she tells them as they walk, the halls starkly empty and quiet except for the tap-tap-tap of their shoes against the tile floors. “The ones in the immediate area, at least. The rest have been reached by phone. They were all informed of the situation, and the board and the headmaster have been listening to witness accounts and discussing matters since then.”

“So both of our guardians are already there, then?” Arthur asks.

Merlin winces. He had known Gaius would be called, and it’s unlikely that anything extremely pressing was interrupted in the shop; still, he hates the thought of being an inconvenience, even if he is reasonably certain that Gaius is unlikely to see it that way.

“Your father is here, Mr. Pendragon,” Madam Aithusa says, “but Mr. Emrys’s guardian won’t be joining us.”

“What?” Merlin asks, stopping abruptly in the hall. “Why?”

“Please keep walking, Mr. Emrys,” Madam Aithusa comments without stopping. “It’s rude to keep people waiting. To answer your question,” she continues, glancing back to make sure that he is, indeed, keeping pace, “The elder Mr. Pendragon and your uncle are apparently old friends. Shortly after your uncle confirmed that he was on his way here, we received a call from Mr. Pendragon’s secretary, informing us that Mr. Pendragon had been in contact with your uncle, and would be advocating for you on his behalf. Upon arriving, Mr. Pendragon himself relayed the same message to us.”

Merlin imagines he looks very much like a fish, the way he’s gaping at her. “Can he do that?”

“He’s Uther Pendragon,” she says, like it’s self-explanatory. Merlin supposes that it is.

“Did you know about this?” he whispers to Arthur, unable to conceal his own bewilderment. He knows as soon as he’s asked that he needn’t have bothered even finishing the question –the look on Arthur’s face says plainly that he hadn’t.

“No,” Arthur answers anyways, shaking his head almost dazedly. “I didn’t know my father _had _friends.”

Almost as soon as the words leave his mouth, he comes to a halt, and it’s only his hand reaching to catch Merlin’s shoulder that prevents Merlin from crashing right into the deputy headmistress’s rear-end.

It’s not the headmaster’s office that they’ve been lead to, but a large conference room just down the hall. They must have needed the extra space, Merlin thinks, to be able to accommodate the board as well as the students and their parents. 

“We’re here,” she announces, as if they can’t see that for themselves. She turns to face them. “No one who played any part in today’s…_incident_,” she says, her lip curling up almost imperceptibly in disdain, “will remain at school today, regardless of the decision made by the board in regards to your punishment. All of the other students involved have already provided their own accounts and been sent home. Several students that _weren’t _involved have also given their testimony, and a few have even provided video evidence. Regardless, we still need to hear the story from all sides, and the only people left who have yet to testify are the two of you.”

“I’ll go first,” Arthur says immediately.

“Well don’t tell _me _that,” she says. “You’ll be speaking directly with Headmaster Kilgharrah and Albion’s Board of Directors – you can tell them.”

She leads them over to the chairs directly outside the door. “You can sit while you wait,” she says, almost kindly. “Go in whenever you’re ready – as I’ve said, they’re waiting for you."

She leaves them there, and, instead of heading back into her office as Merlin had expected, she absconds from the corridor entirely; off to the teacher’s lounge for a stiff drink and a good gossip session, Merlin supposes. He has a feeling quite a few people are headed in that direction, after today.

“Your father’s already in there.” Merlin says once she’s gone.

Arthur takes a deep breath, and nods minutely. “Yes.” He stands, and takes a step towards the door.

“Good luck.”

Arthur looks down at Merlin and smiles; it’s weaker that his smiles usually are, and more troubled, but still as sincere as ever. “It’ll be okay. I might be a while, but I promise – everything will be fine. I’ll make sure of it."

Merlin had been distracted, up until now, with the chaos of the fight, and then the pain and shock of it, and then with Arthur’s story. He considers, for the first time, how badly things could go, for him specifically. Valiant has never been made to face consequences before, not even over a direct attack on Albion’s venerated rugby team; what are the odds he’ll start now?

Technically speaking, this is the second time this year that Merlin’s gotten into a fight at school, and he doesn’t have Valiant’s advantages – it’s more than likely, he knows, that the board will pin this on him, take away his scholarship, and allow Valiant, once again, to walk free. Merlin has always been acutely aware of the precariousness of his situation, but for the first time, he really is in danger of losing everything.

Maybe Arthur picks up on Merlin’s anxiety, or maybe he just wants an excuse to stay a moment longer. Whatever the reason, he steps back towards Merlin, leaning forwards and cupping Merlin’s jaw with both hands. Merlin is struck by the thought, not for the first time, that Arthur’s eyes are the bluest he’s ever seen. He is comforted, suddenly and absurdly, by the thought that whatever happens, this, at least, is unlikely to change. Too soon, Arthur releases his hold on Merlin’s face and sweeps his hands downwards, catching Merlin’s shoulders in a reassuring grip.

“It’ll all be okay,” he says again. “I promise.”

Merlin is a worrier; he knows that there are a million ways this could go wrong. Merlin also trusts Arthur, though, probably more than he should, and definitely more than he trusts himself. If Arthur says it will be okay, Merlin can only believe that it will be.

*

It’s not until over half an hour later that the door finally reopens. Merlin looks up in time to see two people emerge from the room. The first is Arthur, and he’s followed closely by a man Merlin recognizes, but has never actually seen in person: Arthur’s father, Uther Pendragon.

Merlin jerks his head back down the moment he recognizes them; excellent though he is at coming up with worst-case scenarios, he could never have imagined meeting Arthur’s father under such spectacularly abysmal circumstances. It’s likely that Mr. Pendragon knows who he is, given his apparent connection to Gaius, but Merlin can only hope that he doesn’t know what Merlin is to his son – the last thing Merlin needs on what may turn out to be one of the worst days of his life is for his boyfriend’s father to decide before even properly meeting him that Merlin is not a suitable match for his son. _Not_, Merlin snorts inwardly, _that there’s much of a chance of him thinking anything else. _

He succeeds in avoiding Mr. Pendragon’s gaze at the cost of meeting Arthur’s, and the two of them glide by him without a word.

“We’re ready when you are, Mr. Emrys,” the Headmaster’s voice calls from doorway. Without quite making the decision to do so, Merlin rises, and moves towards the door.

Headmaster Kilgharrah looks him over appraisingly as Merlin steps inside. “Thank you for joining us,” he rumbles. “Please have a seat. You’re our final witness — although it looks like you did a bit more than witness,” he adds, his eyes focusing briefly on Merlin’s cut lip and the large, violet bruise still forming over Merlin’s mouth.

He closes the door and sits, as Kilgharrah had requested. Aside from himself and the headmaster, there are five other people in the room, each of them a member of Albion Academy’s Board of Directors.

The headmaster’s face is the only warm one among them. Merlin has always suspected that the man rather likes him, but he knows that the headmaster is only one member of the board. His support alone won’t be enough to save Merlin.

The headmaster leans back in his chair. “From your perspective,” he says, “please tell us about the events of today.”

Merlin starts from the beginning. He leaves out certain things, like the fact that seeing Arthur holding Merlin's had been what set Valiant off. In fact, he leaves out their relationship entirely, and mentions only briefly what Valiant had insinuated about the two of them. He’s sure they’ve heard the story about a hundred times by now, but if they realize that he’s leaving out details, they don’t call him on it. He has only just begun describing the rugby team’s arrival on the scene when the headmaster raises a hand. Merlin obediently falls silent.

“Would you say,” Kilgharrah asks, almost leisurely, “that this was an isolated incident?”

“Sir?”

Kilgharrah leans forward in his seat, clasping his hands together over the desk. “Is this the first time that Mr. Cavalier has exhibited behavior reminiscent to his outburst today?” There is a twinkle in his eye that makes Merlin suspect the headmaster already knows the answer.

“No, sir.” Merlin answers and watches curiously as the headmaster’s countenance turns almost serene.

“No, indeed,” Kilgharrah says thoughtfully, looking very subtly pleased.

One of the men, a few seats to Kilgharrah’s left, clears his throat. “As I have reminded you _several _times now, headmaster,” he says, “we are here to discuss the events of today, and today _alone_. Mr. Cavalier cannot now be held accountable for any perceived past slights, and it would be unfair of us to take any potential grudges against him into account here.”

Another board member (and, Merlin notices, the only woman in the room), levels the man with a rather terrifying glare. “It’s not about punishing him now for his past actions, it’s about establishing whether or not there is a pattern to be found within this frankly _disturbing _behavior.”

“Disturbing in _your _eyes,” the man says.

“Disturbing in the eyes of all of the students who have testified here today,” the woman counters sharply, “many of whom are _also _legacies at Albion, and a few of whose families have an even longer history with us.”

She glances at the closed door behind Merlin, and he knows without asking that she is talking about Uther Pendragon.

Headmaster Kilgharrah nods. “Thank you, Director Nimueh,” he says. He turns to the first man. “Our purpose is _not _only to assess today’s events. The severity of the situation and the role played by Mr. Cavalier demands an evaluation of his character, as well as a serious inquiry into whether or not our institution can, in good faith, continue to cater to him any longer.”

He turns to Merlin. “I believe we have received a mostly complete picture of what happened here today. The testimonies of some of your fellow students, however, have lead us to believe that you in particular, Mr. Emrys, may be able to provide us with a more complete account of Mr. Cavalier’s character, at least in regards to his relationships with his fellow students.”

_Oh_, thinks Merlin, a little bitterly, _they finally want to listen_. He’s almost more frustrated than he was before; he’s been waiting for so long for someone ask, and now that they are, he doesn’t quite know where to start.

Perhaps sensing his dilemma, the headmaster speaks again. “This was not the first time you and Mr. Cavalier have engaged in a physical altercation, is it?”

“No, sir,” Merlin says. “It wasn’t.”

“I understand that a similar incident occurred about a month ago,” Kilgharrah says. His eyes narrow slightly. “I’m afraid I was away from the Academy at the time, and it was not brought to my attention until well after the fact. Perhaps we could discuss it now. We have a basic understanding of what happened – would you be willing to shed some light on the details for us?”

“Yeah,” Merlin nods. “Yes, I mean. I can do that. It was about a month ago, like you said, on a Friday – the last day before half-term break.”

*

He’d been walking to class alone from the cafeteria, (cursing his schedule, as usual), when someone had called his name. He’d turned to see Valiant coming up behind him and, though he’d tried to maneuver out of the way, Valiant hadn’t let him. He’d backed Merlin through the crowd of students, many of whom had stopped to watch, right up against the lockers.

He’d pushed closer, and Merlin had tried to pull away – but there had been nowhere to go. His backpack had been pressed between the cool metal at his back, but there had been nothing at all between him and Valiant, who had been looking down at Merlin with hateful, beady eyes.

Valiant had said something – but what? Merlin had ignored it at the time, had put it out of his mind because it hadn’t made any _sense_, but – maybe it wasn’t complete gibberish. Maybe it had made sense to Valiant. Maybe, if he’d been there, it would have made sense to Arthur.

“The two of you think you’re so fucking subtle,” Valiant had said, “but I know what you are. He thinks he’s so much better than everyone, but he’s a fucking coward, just like you.”

Merlin had been desperate to get away at this point, and he had said something, he knows, but the memory is cloudy. He’d wanted Valiant to let him go, he remembers. He’d mentioned having to go to class. Valiant had grabbed him by the arm, hard, when Merlin had tried to move away. He’d shoved Merlin back, moving his hand from Merlin’s arm to fist into the collar of his shirt. He’d said something else. What had he said?

“You’re fucking pathetic.” Right. There it is. “It would be different if you were hiding because you knew how fucking disgusting you were, but you don’t care about that at all, do you? You’re hiding because you’re afraid of me. I bet you think you’re so goddamned smart, don’t you? Thinking you can hide from _me_?”

“I don’t know the fuck what you’re talking about,” Merlin had shouted over the roar of the growing crowd. He’d tried again to move away, and yelped when Valiant once again slammed him back against the lockers.

“I fucking _KNOW _HIM!” Valiant had roared, baring his yellowed teeth. “Better than _you_, better than _anyone_! I always have, and that’s why I’m the one who figured it out – but you still think you can keep it a secret from me –”

Merlin had said something here, but what was it? What did he say? “You’re fucking _insane_!” Something like that. Merlin had been yelling, frantically clawing at the fist anchoring him to the lockers. “You’re fucking crazy, just let me _go!” _

Valiant hadn’t liked that at all.

“I’ll show you crazy, you cowardly little faggot,” he’d said, and then he’d pulled his fist back, and Merlin had tried desperately to get away, but with no luck – and then there was pain. Merlin’s face had exploded with it, and it had made the pressure on his back and his chest and his neck feel like nothing at all. He’d hit the floor and his bag hit the floor and his books hit the floor and Valiant had been shouting, still, but it was drowned out by the people screaming around them.

There had been hands on his shoulders, around his waist, hoisting him up and dragging him down the hall. His ears had been ringing and his vision had been blurry, and he hadn’t known what was happening, but he’d known he wasn’t going to make it to class.

He had tried to make sense of it all afterwards, but how could he? Valiant had never even mentioned a name.

*

It’s silent once he finishes, but for only a moment.

“This was not the first time you faced harassment at his hands,” the woman (Nimueh, Kilgharrah had called her) says. It is not a question, but Merlin answers anyways.

“Er – no,” he says. “But that was the worst. Before today, I mean.”

“So you wouldn’t say that his behavior today was out of the ordinary?” A man who hasn’t spoken up before asks.

“Today was…bad,” Merlin admits. “Worse than usual. But…also not completely surprising, no.”

From the looks on their faces, Merlin doubts this is the first time they’ve asked this question, or the first time they’ve gotten this answer.

“As I believe Madam Aithusa informed you,” Kilgharrah says, “video footage of the incident has been provided by numerous witnesses. Of course, we haven’t made any formal decisions yet, but you should know that neither you nor any of the students who protected you today are expected to face any disciplinary action.”

Merlin can’t help the way his mouth falls open. “_Any_?” he asks. “Really?”

“Really,” the headmaster says. “Albion Academy officially has a no-tolerance policy for violence, but your friend Arthur’s father was quite compelling in his defense of the individuals involved. A defense which included you, Mr. Emrys.” Kilgharrah raises an eyebrow. “He was especially adamant about _your _innocence in particular.”

“Well,” Merlin says tersely, “I would hope that _someone _was, seeing as I didn’t actually _do _anything. Sir.”

A few of the board members look offended, but Kilgharrah just looks amused.

“I expect,” he continues, “ that you’ve also been told you are not to remain at school today.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good,” Kilgharrah says, the edges of his mouth curling up into a rare smile. “Thank you for enlightening us, Mr. Emrys. You may be on your way, and we look forward to having you back in class tomorrow.”

*

Merlin knows he’s supposed to go home, and he wants to – but he also knows that there’s nothing he wants more, right now, than to see Arthur.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to look far. As soon as he steps outside of the room, closing the door behind him, he’s greeted by the sight of Arthur and Uther Pendragon, sitting silently in the chairs directly across the hall. The sight is shocking, half because he had expected them to be long gone, and half because Uther Pendragon does not seem like the kind of man who has ever sat down in his life.

Arthur’s head had shot up when the door opened, and he stands when he sees Merlin.

“Merlin!” he exclaims. He takes a several quick steps towards Merlin, but comes to an abrupt stop a few feet away; a respectable distance. Merlin glances behind Arthur, at Mr. Pendragon, occupied with his cellphone but still _right __there_, and understands.

As if feeling Merlin’s eyes on him, Mr. Pendragon stands up and slips his phone into an inner pocket of his suit. He walks forward, coming to a stop directly in front of them.

“Quite a bit of excitement, for a Monday morning,” he says. There is a sharpness in his voice, but no anger, as far as Merlin can tell.

Arthur had turned back around, away from Merlin, when Mr. Pendragon had first stood, and he addresses the man now. “Yes, father.” The line of his shoulders is stiff and his jaw is tight, but he holds his father’s gaze.

Instead of responding to his son, Mr. Pendragon turns his head and looks directly at Merlin, and spends a few moments examining him. It’s not exactly judgment that Merlin finds in his gaze – bafflingly, it’s something more like curiosity.

“You must be Mr. Emrys,” Mr. Pendragon says. “I’ve heard a bit about you from your uncle, but I had no idea you knew my son so well.”

“Er – yes, sir, that’s me. But you can call me Merlin. If – ah, if you’d like?” Merlin’s offer – his attempt to foster some sort of civility and familiarity between himself and the father of his boyfriend – comes out sounding more like a question than a statement, and Merlin feels very much like sinking into the ground might be a very strategic next move.

He expects Mr. Pendragon to dismiss him, then: to roll his eyes, perhaps, or maybe purse his lips, return his attention to Arthur and make it clear without saying so that Merlin is, at least in his eyes, unworthy of so much as breathing the same air as Arthur. Instead, Mr. Pendragon nods.

(Merlin wonders when he’ll finally become used to Pendragons catching him by surprise – he’s sure the time can’t be long off.)

“Merlin,” Mr. Pendragon repeats pensively, as if committing it to memory. “It has come to my attention,” he continues seriously, still entirely focused on Merlin, “that you and my son have recently entered into a romantic relationship.”

“_Father_!” Arthur says hotly before Merlin can respond. He moves forward just slightly, like he’s planning on stepping between his father and Merlin the way he had stepped between Merlin and Valiant. “I hardly think –”

“Please let me speak, Arthur,” Mr. Pendragon interrupts tiredly. “If you had informed me of this development, or even of your _interest_, we could have had him over for dinner far sooner, and you could have invited him yourself. As it is, the invitation is already so late that it’s bordering on impolite, and I can’t exactly trust you to relay it, considering you’ve gone this long without doing so.”

“…Dinner?” Arthur asks.

“Yes,” says Mr. Pendragon slowly, “dinner. The final meal of the day, typically eaten with family and often with individuals outside the family whom one knows well or wishes to know better.”

He turns back towards Merlin. “On that note, my children and I,” he says, glancing pointedly at Arthur, who is looking a bit slack-jawed, “would like to extend to you an invitation to have dinner with us. Does Saturday work for you?”

Merlin can’t actually remember if he has any plans Saturday, but it really doesn’t matter – he could be abducted by aliens on Saturday and he’d still find a way to make it to dinner with the Pendragons.

“Saturday is perfect,” he says, and then, glancing Arthur for just a moment and then looking quickly back at Mr. Pendragon, “Thank you for the invitation. I also,” he blurts, after only a brief moment of hesitation, “wanted to thank you for…whatever it was that you said to the board, before I arrived. Headmaster Kilgharrah told me you vouched for me, despite not knowing me. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I know that you’re at least part of the reason I get to stay. So…thank you.”

Mr. Pendragon raises an eyebrow, looking almost impressed.

“It was no trouble at all,” he says matter-of-factly. “Don’t think on it again. Arthur will relay the details for Saturday to you once they’re settled.” He nods at the both of them, and then turns to walk away, only to be stopped by Arthur’s voice.

“Father,” he says, “what _did _you say to them? Before I got there, I mean.”

Mr. Pendragon pauses, then turns back around. “As you know, I spoke with the board before either of you arrived. They graciously allowed me to sit in on the testimonies given by the other students, and reached an understanding, helped along partially by my guidance, that the party at fault is Mr. Cavalier.”

“Did they tell you the same?” Arthur asks, turning to Merlin.

Merlin nods, and then shakes his head. “Sort of,” he settles on. “The headmaster told me I would be allowed to stay, and that the team probably wouldn’t be getting in any trouble.”

“Your scholarship…” starts Arthur.

“Contingent on good behavior, but I think most of them know I’m not at fault. I don’t know what they’ll do with Valiant, though.”

“Mr. Cavalier is being relocated,” Mr. Pendragon says. Merlin’s eyes cut over towards his figure just as Arthur whips around to look at him.

Understanding snaps into place in Merlin’s head like a rubber band.

“And by relocated,” Merlin says, “you mean he’ll be…”

“Expelled,” confirms Mr. Pendragon.

“Exp – but _how_?” Arthur demands. “You’ve told me it takes the board years to decide on new carpet patterns, but they decided on expelling a _Cavalier __legacy _in less than a _day_? His family has been attending Albion nearly as long as ours has. They don’t just _expel _legacies at Albion – and especially not legacies whose parents donate as much as his do.”

“The board raised the same paltry argument,” Mr. Pendragon says in a tone that can only be described as irreverent. “I assured them, as I am assuring you now, that the donation will be taken care of.”

“Father,” Arthur says, looking a bit shell-shocked. “Did you bribe the school into expelling Valiant?”

Uther looks down his nose at the two of them. “Don’t be ridiculous, Arthur. The boy was obviously at fault, and is obviously unhinged; there’s video footage to prove it. That he has remained a student at Albion until now is an oversight bordering on negligence.”

“You think it’s fair to call him unhinged?” Arthur challenges. “Not just an arse?

“Language Arthur,” Mr. Pendragon grumbles, but it’s halfhearted at best. He squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Perhaps unhinged wasn’t the right word, but there’s no denying that Mr. Cavalier is troubled. I’m not saying he’s necessarily a bad person; but people are the products of their environments, and Mr. Cavalier has made – and been allowed to justify by those who should have taught him better — more than a few bad choices. The difficulty lies in the ways the perception of the concept of goodness varies between people, and what they’re willing to do to achieve it. I’m afraid it might take Mr. Cavalier quite a while to unlearn the ideas of right that he has internalized, and that’s not something he can do here.

“Mr. Cavalier’s father has been adamant for years that his son attend Albion academy as generations have before him,” Mr. Pendragon continues, “and until now, his status has been enough to assure it – but that young man’s continued presence at Albion Academy isn’t doing him any good, and I think today has shown that it may actively be harming the rest of the student body, as well as the continued legacy of Albion Academy. This institution, excellent though it is, is not equipped to give that boy what he needs. That’s why he _has _to leave; he requires help that the academy cannot provide.”

“And the donation you just mentioned has _nothing _to do with the board’s agreement?”

“Good _Lord_, Arthur,” Mr. Pendragon says, sounding genuinely irate for the first time, “The Headmaster was referring to a donation to the school that I had already intended to make. I simply offered to increase the amount in order to supplement the loss expected to result from the forfeiture of the Cavalier contribution. Did you drive?”

“I… what?” asks Arthur.

“To school, Arthur. Did you drive to school? Or will you require a ride home?”

“I – yes. I drove.”

“Excellent.” He nods, then, once at each of them. “Arthur, Mr. Emr–” he catches himself again. “Merlin. Goodbye, and I’ll see you both on Saturday.” He turns around and walks away, shoulders back and head held high: Arthur’s mirror image. This time, Arthur lets him go.

Despite the fact that they’re siblings, Merlin has never, except in very rare moments, thought that Morgana and Arthur look very much alike. They’re not completely devoid of similarities, of course, but they’ve always been so much more different, in Merlin’s eyes, than they have ever been the same: him, with blonde hair and blue eyes and appearing, in the right light, to be made entirely of gold; her, with hair so dark it’s almost black, and skin so fair that the contrast is almost haunting. His light and her darkness, his warmth and her chill. Here and now, though, Merlin can see Morgana and Arthur both in Uther Pendragon, and the ways they’ve taken after him, whether they’ll admit to it or not. Her slyness, and his subtle good nature; the strength of their character and their heart and their will. Brilliant and regal and poised and so deeply, silently compassionate that to see it manifest is like an epiphany.

For all Merlin has always looked at people like the Pendragons and seen something cold and hard and impersonal; for all that it seemed that people like them never learn how to care because they don’t have to, never learn how to love in a way that seems _real_, to Merlin, selfless and all-encompassing and true; for all that people like Arthur and Morgana and even Valiant are the way they are because it has been drilled into them since birth that there is nothing more important than success, than stature, than reputation…for all of that, Uther Pendragon loves his children. Enough to teach them right from wrong. Enough to put his work at his billion-dollar company on hold after learning his son had been involved in a school yard fight. Enough to invite his son’s third-class, scholarship-student boyfriend to dinner. Enough to donate millions of pounds to his children’s school to ensure that the student who assaulted his son and his son’s boyfriend will be forced to face the consequences of his actions for what may be the first time in his life.

If people are products of their environments, as Mr. Pendragon had said, then Arthur and Morgana are who they are because of him. Perhaps Merlin has more to thank Uther Pendragon for than just his own continued enrollment at Albion Academy.

“Albion Academy has one of the largest endowments of any school in the country,” Merlin says as they watch him walk away.

“I know,” says Arthur, still staring after his father.

“Hundreds of millions of pounds,” continues Merlin, “and growing every year.”

“I know.”

“The board might be made up of money-hungry shrews, but they really don’t need extra donations.”

“That’s right,” Arthur agrees.

“Your father just bribed the school into expelling Valiant,” says Merlin, so relieved and unexpectedly endeared that he can’t even bring himself to be aggrieved by such a gross misuse of power.

“Yes,” says Arthur, a bit vacantly, “I really do think that he did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I invented the last name cavalier for valiant 
> 
> I also want to say that I forgive arthur for being rich in this story but uhhh this is fiction. eat the rich irl 
> 
> there will be a short (about 1.5k) epilogue coming soon:)
> 
> if you liked it, or have any notes on the direction I took this story, things you'd have liked to see, or my writing, please feel free to let me know!


	8. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before school, a few weeks later.

“Your boyfriend’s a git,” is the first thing Will says to Merlin when they meet each other in the hallway before school, the first Monday after term break has ended.

“Yes,” Merlin says fondly, “he is, isn’t he?”

“Aren’t you going to ask what he did?”

“I’m assuming it has something to do with ongoing prank war between the football team and the rugby team?”

“It is not a ‘_prank_ _war_,’” Will spits, “It is a _rivalry_. But yes, you would be assuming correctly, for once. Honestly Merlin, I think it’s time to cut him loose.”

“Cut him loose?” Merlin asks, faking offense. “You’re telling me to cut him loose after you’ve already given us your blessing?”

“Blessing?” Will demands. “What blessing? I never gave any blessing!”

“The day after we got together!” Merlin reminds him. “On the phone? You said something about him being a good person? And that you approved of our relationship?”

“I said he wasn’t as big of an idiot as I thought!” Will shouts.

“Will,” Merlin says, fixing a faux-hurt expression on his face, “are you revoking your blessing?”

“That is _not_,” says Will crossly, “what I’m doing –”

“So you did give us one!” Merlin exclaims gleefully, all pretense of offense slipping away. “You’re admitting you did –”

“_Fuck _you –”

“Actually,” someone says from behind Will, “I think that’s my job.”

Merlin goes red, sputtering, as Will recoils and hisses, “_I am begging you to keep that to yourself.”_

Arthur grins at them both. “I’m kidding,” he assures them, and looks at Merlin. “Are you alright?”

Merlin, having recovered from his brief coughing fit, smiles peachily. “Oh, yes,” he says. “I forgot to tell you, love, but Will has given us his _blessing_.”

“Oh,” says Arthur, suddenly serious, “I thank you sincerely, William –”

Will rolls his eyes possibly harder than anyone ever has before. “I fucking hate you pretentious royalty types," he grumbles, "taking everything so bloody seriously –”

“A blessing is a very serious thing,” Arthur says solemnly, wrapping an arm around a still slightly pink Merlin, who leans right into it. “We’ll have to get the Pendragon family notary to make a record of it –”

“Oh, stop taking the piss,” calls a different voice, and Will moves aside to welcome the newcomer into their circle. It was Morgana who had spoken, but she’s arrived with both Freya and Gwen, who are giggling not very covertly behind their hands. “He’s fucking with you,” Morgana assures Will, leveling Arthur with a look that would make a lesser man tremble, but just makes Arthur look rather smug. “We’re not involved in any cults and we don’t do ritual sacrifices, or whatever nonsense he was spouting.”

“He was talking about the Pendragon family notary.”

“Oh,” Morgana says thoughtfully. “Well, we do have one of those.”

“One of what?” Gwaine’s voice inquires, and Merlin turns to see he and Elyan both making their way towards them. “A vault of gold you can swim in like Scrooge McDuck? It’s true, I’ve seen it.”

Even Will laughs at that, despite his reinvigorated grudge against the rugby team.

“Brought you lunch,” Elyan says when the two of them reach their little group. Gwaine moves to stand next to Freya, smiling as gently as Merlin’s ever seen him, and then a bit more brightly when Freya smiles back. Merlin will have to keep an eye on that, if only for teasing purposes.

Elyan holds out a paper bag for Gwen. “Thought you might have forgotten, since you and Morgana spent the night at Freya’s.”

Gwen takes the bag gratefully, though her thanks is lost under Morgana’s pointed words: “You’re _so _lucky Gwen; it must be _amazing _to have a brother who’s nice to you, and who cares about your wellbeing. Wonder what it’s like.”

Merlin just wraps his arm around Arthur’s waist. “I don’t know,” he says, over Gwaine and Will’s laughter and Arthur’s huff of exasperation, “I think he’s alright.”

“It all comes down to luck,” Gwaine says knowingly. “Some of us are blessed with angels like Elyan, and some of us…”

He stops when Freya nudges him in the side with her elbow. “Be nice,” she warns, “or I’ll uninvite you to movie night.”

“Gwen was going to make macadamia nut cookies this week, too,” Elyan says seriously, and Gwaine puts his hands up in surrender.

The bell rings, then, and all around them students begin moving towards their classes.

“Meet at lunch?” Freya asks.

Merlin winces. “Can’t, actually – Gwen and I have to meet with Professor Whiting.”

Will whistles. “Oh, right – I forgot the two of you were bigshots, now, getting your paper published in a real journal, too good for us little people –”

Gwen swats his shoulder. “Shut up,” she says starts, “it’s not like that –”

She’s interrupted by Gwaine. “Oh,” he says, putting the back of his hand to the forehead and swooning like a damsel, “remember us when you’re famous!” He goes to fall into Elyan’s arms like a fainting maiden, but Elyan steps aside, letting Gwaine fall to the floor. The group devolves into near hysterics, laughing almost drowned out by Gwaine’s cries of “_Betrayal_!” and “_Treachery_!”

They part ways for class – all of them except for Merlin and Will, who have first period together.

“I would almost rather he actually _had _been plotting to kill you,” Will says under his breath as Professor Bennet takes roll. “Of course I’m _happy _for you,” he says, his tone hovering between sincere and weary, “but it could have been literally _anyone _else.”

Merlin thinks of Arthur’s smile, and Arthur’s laugh. He thinks of how it feels to wear his jersey and hold his hand and kiss his lips, and the way his voice sounds when he reads to Merlin (which he does, now – instead of reading books separately, Arthur will come into the shop when he’s free and read to Merlin, starting wherever they left off last time. It’s very high up on the list of Merlin’s favorite things to do with Arthur, which is saying something, considering the stiff competition). He thinks of Arthur, who loves every animal he sees and holds open doors for everyone and always offers Merlin his jacket, whether Merlin needs it or not. Arthur, who could win any fight but who never starts one, who is bold and loyal and funny and who makes Merlin feel brave enough to face down a dragon. Arthur: a hero, but not the tragic kind – the real kind. The kind people can’t help but love once they know him – Merlin included.

“No,” Merlin says, unable to repress the smile curling at the edge of his lips. “It really, really couldn’t have been.”

He means it. There was a reason they had been drawn to each other, even thinking, as they had for so long, that nothing could ever come of it but pain. Even before they had started to understand what it might mean, they had always seen in each other something that most other people didn’t, or couldn’t.

When Arthur’s friends had begun approaching Merlin – when they had started to become his friends, too – it hadn’t been entirely for Arthur. They may have been trying to help, in a strange and invasive way, but… they had also wanted to _know _Merlin, because they had known how Arthur felt about him. They love Arthur, and so they’d wanted to know what Arthur saw in Merlin, just like Merlin, upon realizing on the sidelines of a rugby field how deeply he loved _them_, had realized that he needed to know Arthur, too: really know him, in a way he could be sure about; in a way he couldn’t push to the back of his mind and call fake, imagined, irrelevant.

Now, Merlin realizes that he’s known Arthur for quite a bit longer than he’d thought, and vice versa. They may only have been dating for a month, but Merlin’s been falling in love with him for far longer. Merlin had seen Arthur, really and truly, before he’d known that’s what he was doing, and Arthur had seen Merlin right back. In each other they’d found the truth, even if it took a little while to get there.

Even when the bell rings and class officially begins, Merlin can feel the remnants of a smile on his face; trigonometry may not be his favorite subject, but he has something to look forward to. Whoever makes the schedules must be smiling down on Merlin this term – he’s got his next class with Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's finally over!! that's all, folks!!! this was the second fic I ever wrote and also the longest thing I’ve ever written period, so it’s kind of a milestone for me. if you’d like to tell me anything about it or give any kind of feedback at all I’d really appreciate it! Even if not, I just want to thank everyone who made it all the way through the fic! Love you all <3

**Author's Note:**

> Can't believe I'm writing Merlin fan fiction in 2019 but here we are! I thought it was going to be around 6k words lmao :-) This is literally the second thing I've ever written that wasn't for school and it's not beta read bc I don't know people who do that SO please please please feel free to let me know what you think, or if you have any input for me, or anything to say at all!


End file.
